


Whumptober 2020: Monster Whump Collection

by yergothfriend (ineptdetective)



Series: Yergothfriend's Whumptober 2020 Works [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV), Original Work, Preacher (TV)
Genre: Animal Death, Blood, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Broken Bones, Broken nose, Burns, Corpses, Death, Decay, Demonology, Demons, Destructive magic, Electrocution, Evocation, Explicit Language, Extreme Gore, Eye Injury, Eye Trauma, Gen, Gore, Graphic Description of Injuries, Graphic injuries, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, Hand injury, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Mage, Magic, Major Character Injury, Monsters, Paranormal, References to Drugs, Religion, Smoking, Teeth, Torture, Undead, Violence against women, Viscera, Werewolf, Werewolves, Whumptober 2020, Witches, Zombie, decomposition, extreme violence, graphic eye injury, ligaments, major eye injury, permanent disfigurement, reanimated, tendons, tooth injury, vampire, vampire whump, weaponized religion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:15:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 31,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26762692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineptdetective/pseuds/yergothfriend
Summary: This is a collection of whump ideas for monsters and paranormal beings (Mostly vampires). These are ideas I wanted to do but that didn't quite fit with my longer original work that I'm also writing for the challenge.Not sure how many will end up here, so I'm just posting them as they catch my fancy. Tags will be updated as I add.
Series: Yergothfriend's Whumptober 2020 Works [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1963297
Comments: 24
Kudos: 7
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	1. I'm Bad With Names - Proinsias Cassidy, Preacher (TV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober Ficlet, Day 1  
> Prompt No. 1: Let's Hang Out Sometime  
> (Hanging)
> 
> Just another day in the very long life of Proinsias Cassidy.
> 
> Trigger/Content warnings: blood, teeth, electrocution, references to drugs, references to torture

Cassidy has never understood the mechanics of his own body. Or, to be more precise, it has been over a hundred years since he has understood the mechanics of his own body. The connection was lost somewhere around 1916 in a cold, misty bog in the Middle of Fucking Nowhere, Ireland.

The Middle of Fucking Nowhere, Anywhere seems to be where he lives, because he finds himself there now. It’s a netherworld space that exists everywhere he turns, a lonely place where all roads lead.

And the thing he doesn’t understand about the inner machinations of the sack of meat he inhabits is why on earth he would have a cardiovascular system that pumps blood.

He’s watching it run out of him now, out of his open mouth and onto the floor below his feet. Is it his blood? Does his body produce it? Is it the recycled fuel from the last person he drank? Where in god’s name does it come from?

This is by no means the first time he’s been strung up by his bound wrists. He prefers it when it’s consensual and preceded by a nice steak dinner. Or at least he assumes this wasn’t consensual… he can’t exactly remember how he got here. His face feels torn up from the prerequisite beating, and he tastes and smells that battery acid tang that comes with a concussion.

Which reminds him of another thing he doesn’t understand: why is he susceptible to concussions? How does his brain work if it’s dead?

“You’re not dead,” Seamus had once told him. “Don’t overthink it. There are too few of us to worry about existential crises.”

“But I’m not exactly livin’ tho, am I mate?” He’d countered. “I’ve been drawn and quartered, beheaded even… if I’m not dead and undead, then what the bloody hell am I?”

Seamus had just shrugged. “A vampire. What do you want me to say? This ain’t Anne Rice and it ain’t Bela Lugosi. Just live your life.”

But Cassidy has lived a century and some change, and a body gets bored. You can’t help but think.

He spits, and, king of kings and lord of lords, his right fucking fang falls out, just… skitters across the floor.

“Thought them fuckers were diamond hard,” he mumbles with curiosity, and is oddly delighted at the thought of experiencing something new. No one answers, which is a relief, even if he knows it’s only a temporary reprieve.

He's barefoot and he can't feel his toes. The room is cold, and as he takes stock he realizes it’s a meat freezer, which explains why he’s feeling slightly numb. “Shame,” he says to himself flatly. “I hated Goodfellas.”

The feeling starts to return to him slowly, and it’s then when he realizes that both of his shoulders are dislocated, the spheres of the top of his humerus bones miles away from their little nests. His bodyweight bears down on his sinewy muscles and ligaments. The pain feels like heat, a tearing, sharp sensation, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

Another question… why does it have to hurt? Why do things still hurt, even if he’s felt them a thousand times before?

The heavy door swings open, and some generic milquetoast guy walks in, wearing some generic jeans and t-shirt combo. He’s holding a cattle prod.

“Okay, what is it this time… bone to pick or wannabe Buffy?”

The guy scowls at him, looks a little hurt.

“Bone to pick,” Cassidy answers himself. “And yer a bit gutted I didn’t remember you?”

“Denver. 1976,” the man says, as if that’s supposed to answer any questions.

“Oof, mate, yer gunna need to be more specific. The seventies essentially ate my hippocampus,” Cassidy says. The man stares at him blankly. “Long term memory storage? Middlea’ the brain? I fell inta a wiki-hole t’other nigh— ”

His offer of knowledge is cut off by a backhand that causes his whole body to jerk, pulling even more on his dislocated shoulders. He roars, bearing his one remaining fang and hisses at the man.

“Okay okay, yer mad, and I can’t fault ya,” Cassidy responds, trying to calm himself down. He needs a bag of O neg, a joint, and his Sopranos DVDs. Physical media isn’t dead yet, he reassures himself. “Why don’ we talk it tru like a couplea grown adults so we can settle the score.”

“It’ll be settled after I pull out all your teeth, cut your ears off, and break your arms and legs,” the man answers.

Cassidy sighs. “Look. Let’s start over. I’m sorry I forgot yer name, it’s a bit of a problem I have, won’t happen again. Whyn’t you remind me so I can properly apologize.”

“My name,” the man says firmly and proudly, “is Steven Donner.”

No bells ring in Cassidy’s mind. 76 was a good year for coke and for wanton murder, both of which were his specialty back then. But rather than reveal this to his new/old friend Steve, he responds with a nod, “Yes. Right. I didn’t recognize you… you’ve… lost weight.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Steve gives him a good dose of electricity with the cattle prod. Cassidy cries out, convulsing with the shock— heat and cold, vibrations running through his nerves, hugging his skeleton, clouding his vision. When it stops, he’s panting.

“I’ve _gained_ weight, you fucking moron.” It’s now that Steve decides to show Cassidy the source of his anger: a long, keloid-bumpy pink scar on his arm along the artery, from palm to elbow. “You don’t remember me? Of course you don’t. I was just food to you.”

Cassidy shuts up. He was definitely a lot freer with feeding directly from the source rather than on the Capri-Sun-style plastic bags of blood he steals from hospitals now. “Steve—”

“ _Steven,_ ” the man corrects.

“Right. Steven. I want ya to know that I am a changed man now. If I’da known you were out there I woulda come straight to ya to apologize mehself.”

“Fuck you. You’re a goddamn monster. Left me to die.”

“But ya didn’t, did ya, Steven? Doesn’t that count fer somethin?”

Steven gets up in his face. “Not a bit,” he says defiantly.

But he’s gotten too close. Hannibal Lecter himself isn’t as quick with a bite as Cassidy, and the vampire grabs Steve by the nose with his teeth, clamping down to the bone and cartilage and sucking in the warm offering that comes from the plentiful blood vessels.

Steve screams, but he’s too close to use the cattleprod, which he drops as his hands come up to protect his nose.

It’s too late. The juice is enough to pull Cassidy’s shoulders back together just enough. He pulls himself up and kicks Steve in the chest hard enough to catapult the man backward into a side of beef.

With the strength back in his arms, he manages to tear off his left thumb using his right hand and slips it out of the shackles, which frees him of the hook. He drops, landing on the icy floor with his bare feet, the cuffs dangling from his right hand.

Steve tries to reach for the cattle prod but Cassidy gets to him first and grabs him by the collar. “Don’t worry, Steve, he hisses. “This time I won’t leave ya to die. Y’ll jus be dead."


	2. Piety (Spike - Buffy the Vampire Slayer)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober Ficlet, Day 2  
> Prompt No. 2: In the Hands of the Enemy  
> (Collared)
> 
> "Kidnapped by magical nuns," Spike thinks, "That's a new one innit?"
> 
> Trigger/Content warnings: blood, teeth, religion, burns

They corner Spike in a delightfully rustic little alleyway. He’s still picking bits of rosemary roasted chicken and fresh-off-the-vine tomatoes out of his teeth when he hears a noise behind him.

It’s a nun. A sweet-looking, tiny little nun. She smiles at him when he notices her, but he’s immediately suspicious. It’s that vampy-sense, for lack of a better term. He backs away from her even though she’s about fifteen feet away from him, his boots scuffing over the cobblestones.

It’s nearly midnight, and, while Spike knows very little about the habits of the be-habitted, he’s guessing this isn’t prime public prayer time. Despite the darkness of night, there’s still a stifling heat in the air, and he feels prickles of sweat on the back of his neck.

Having a soul has brought more fear with it than he expected. All the feelings he hadn’t experienced since the nineteenth century have become so burdensome. It’s annoying.

He’s so distracted by her that he backs into someone, feeling the soft give of flesh. But the person stands their ground and is unmoved.

He turns around to find himself face to face with a very unfriendly looking older woman, dressed in the same style of habit as the other woman who’s been following him.

“Come with us,” she says sternly. He never went to Catholic school, but he has the feeling this is what it’s like. She’s quite intimidating.

“No thank you?” he tries.

Before he even finishes saying it, a dozen more sisters appear at either end of the alleyway, most armed. Some have stakes, a couple have burning torches, and some swords thrown in there as well. Just for fun.

He sees a way out, just a hop right over the fence, quick as you please. He can clear it in one jump. But before he even starts to move, he’s seized by a force that feels like it’s crushing him. The older nun is chanting, holding her hands out like claws, and the air around him contracts. He’s suffocating. And here he thought vampires didn’t need to breathe.

While he’s incapacitated, the rest of the group moves in like locusts, and they bind him with spotless, gleaming silver chains that burn his skin.

They hoist them up over their heads like he’s crowd surfing at a Dead Kennedys show and march him through the empty street to an ancient and dilapidated old church. The great stained glass window over the entrance is completely knocked out, and some of the colored crystal shards glitter and crack under their feet as they bring him in.

_ Kidnapped by magical nuns, _ Spike thinks,  _ that’s a new one, innit? _

He was just trying to have a quiet Italian vacation.

They carry him through the church, past the intricately gory crucifixes and martyred saints, down some stone stairs that look like they’re straight out of an Edgar Allen Poe story.

The pious little penguins chain him up in some sort of mausoleum or catacomb. Quite gothic and ornate, ancient skulls neatly stacked against the walls like firewood. Once he kills them all he reckons he’ll move in.

Sister Mary Stick-Up-Her-Arse is looking him up and down, her flock gathered behind her, all wearing similarly sour faces. He’s a bit humiliated at the moment, having been overpowered by this cadre of tiny humans, none of whom are even as tall as he is. That’s saying something, because he’s not too proud to admit that he’s not exactly a tall drink of water.

He wonders if maybe vampires are a bit overestimated. Seems like the witches are the ones that have the edge.

“Ladies, I think this has all been a misunderstanding,” he says. “I’m actually an associate and close personal friend of Buffy Summers.”

They stare at him blankly.

“Buffy Summers,” he says again.

The mother superior says something in Italian to one of her minions, but makes no indication that she has heard Spike at all.

“Oh! Okay. Language barrier,” he says. “My mistake.”

“We speak English,” someone in the back says. He doesn’t quite catch who.

“Well then, like I was saying. Buffy and I are old friends. Former lovers if I’m being completely candid.”

“So you’ve said,” the head nun says. “And we don’t know who that is.”

“What!” Spike chuckles. “Buffy Summers?  _ The _ Buffy Summers? Blonde, fashion forward, feisty? Buffy-The-Fucking-Chosen-One-Summers?”

“No.”

Spike groans. “Bollocks.”

“Bollocks indeed.”

“Fine. Let’s get this over with. You need something from me or you would have staked me by now.”

“We are the sisters of the Order of the Sun.”

“Oo, sounds apocryphal. Does the pope know about this?”

She ignores him, goes on with her little speech. “We’re not here to ‘stake’ you. We’re here to save your soul.”

He rolls his eyes. “Look, luv, I’ve been off the sauce for a few years now… pig’s blood only. But I can switch to beef… can’t remember— do you Catholics eat pork or is that a deadly sin?”

“You are  _ unclean _ , sir.”

“Is it the pork? I  _ knew _ it.”

“You are unclean. But you are human in there, somewhere.”

“Agree to disagree,” He says. He vamps out, his face turning demonic, his eyes changing color and shape into something animal and strange, his fangs bared. “A human can’t do this.”

Their response is a bucket full of holy water thrown full in his face.

He rears back, roaring, his skin blistering. His fearsome features retreat and return to their normal form, now marred by ugly chemical burns.

“ _ Shit! _ ” he sputters. His face is on fire. He closes his eyes, groaning.

“Get him down,” the sister orders her crew.

They approach him. He’s slumped over, weakened, and they’re all so strong. They put him down on his back on the floor, where one woman places her heel on his windpipe to keep him from trying to get up.

He hasn’t seen Buffy or the Scooby Gang in almost a year. No one knows he’s here.

“Strip him,” she orders.

“Didn’t know this was that kind of party,” he says weakly, but his heart’s not in it. They tear his clothes off with a sort of business-like purpose, and then they re-dress him with clothes they’ve chosen. The outfit somehow fits him perfectly.

“I’m not your bloody doll,” Spike protests as they stand him back up and put him back in shackles. He looks down. They’ve dressed him in black slacks and a collared black shirt. “I was already wearing all black, ladies. Part of my brand. The wardrobe change seems a bit redundant.”

“Bring me the collar,” she says.

“I’m not your dog either.”

A younger nun emerges from the back, holding a crisp white circlet.

Spike eyes it suspiciously.

Mother Superior takes it in her hands with a decadent smile. Two other nuns come up alongside Spike and flip up his collar.

The old woman approaches him, pulling the circlet open wide and slowly lowering over his head and toward his shoulders. He realizes now what it is. A priest’s collar. She begins chanting again, and closes it around his neck.

The pain is immediate. It travels through the forked pathways of his nerves, leaving no part of his body untouched. He screams, then clenches his teeth until he’s afraid they might break. The skin on his neck is smoking, steaming, and he can feel a scar forming, as if it goes to the bone.

He writhes, strains against the shackles. He hasn’t felt something like this since the behavior chip. It’s so intense that all he can do is hope for death.

And then she’s chanting again.

The pain fades a bit, to a constant, persistent burn, but he finds that he can finally speak. When he does, it’s strangled and desperate.

“What is this?” he asks. “Why are you doing this?”

The nuns pull back their hoods to reveal foreheads covered in burn scars like the one forming on his throat. They trace the line where their habits touch their skin. “We were monsters like you,” the old woman says. “Now we’re human. And so are you. Don’t worry. You’ll get used to the pain.”


	3. I Still Get Scared (Original Characters)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober Ficlet, Day 3  
> Prompt No. 3: My Way or the Highway  
> (Held at gunpoint)  
> Alt Prompt 14: (Shot)
> 
> Jack and Vid just wanna enjoy their drinks.
> 
> Trigger/Content warnings: blood, teeth, biting, guns, gore

Jack isn’t all that fond of bars, but he and Vid end up spending a lot of time in them anyway. Neither of them are really physically capable of getting drunk (Vid literally can’t eat or drink anything at all anyway, including water), so it seems silly to sit there, ordering whiskey, wasting money, wasting booze.

But bars, especially dark, smoky, dive bars— are an excellent place to remain unnoticed.

Jack and Vid are the types that just look _different,_ and people usually can’t tell why. Just something… off.

That something is that they are not quite human, that they are (by their nature) dangerous, and that they are much much older than they look. Older by decades, and in Vid’s case, centuries.

So even though Vid orders his drink and just sits there for two hours not taking a single sip, no one cares or notices. The room’s too dark for anyone to take note of his semi-translucent skin, his unnaturally high cheekbones, the sharp, pointed eye teeth, or his red-orange irises. No one to notice that he has an umbrella leaned against his barstool even though it hasn’t rained in this town for almost a year.

And no one bats an eye at the fact that Jack has had six beers, four shots, and almost a handle of scotch and looks as even keeled as the moment he walked in. They don’t see his unnaturally fuzzy arms, his eyes that reflect light like a dog’s, or the sharpness of all of his teeth. No one cares.

“I thought we were done for, even money, back at that motel in Georgia,” he says to Vid, who has an old paperback novel smashed open on the bar, its spine cracked.

Vid shrugs. “We’ve been through worse,” he says calmly.

Jack chuckles. “Are you ever scared?”

Vid flips the paperback over, to save his page. He turns to Jack and looks him in the eyes. “I don’t know,” he says, “I’d like to think I can still be scared. It would mean I can still feel alive. But it _has_ been awhile.”

Jack nods. Vid has been around since the 18th Century. Jack’s only 100 years old. Basically a child in this game. The two of them have been kicking around together for about 20 years, an unlikely pair, looking for others like them. Trying to have a good time where they can. Jack still gets scared. Still has that existential crisis energy he can’t quite shake.

“Are _you_ scared?” Vid asks. He doesn’t blink. He has to consciously do it, in order to pass for human, but he doesn’t bother when it’s just Jack. It’s unnerving, but at the same time flattering that Vid feels comfortable enough to be himself around Jack.

Jack looks back at him and considers lying. He’s twice Vid’s size, every inch of him covered in dense muscle, and he can literally shapeshift into a terrifying, unstoppable monster. In his head the pervasive human conditioning that tells him he has to be tough to be masculine is fighting with the innate knowledge that “manliness” is bullshit. “Yes,” he admits. “It felt like a close call.”

Vid considers this for a moment. Then puts his hand on Jack’s knee. “Don’t worry,” he says gently. “We’ve got each other’s backs. And Georgia was a fluke. There aren’t many hunters anymore. They’re a relic of a bygone era.”

Jack nods. He really wants to believe that.

“I’m gonna hit the head,” he says, and Vid inclines his head toward him. Vid doesn’t have to deal with such indignities anymore, and Jack wonders if he’s disgusted by him.

He seems indifferent though, as he is with most things, and he goes back to his novel and his untouched glass of gin.

The bathroom is down a filthy hallway, the walls covered in the greasy handprints of drunken patrons feeling their way to the lavatory while too inebriated to walk straight. Jack pushes through the door and finds the poorly lit room refreshingly empty.

His heightened sense of smell is picking up on the profiles of all the humans that have been there before, their origins, their size. Then he smells the approach of someone new coming down the hallway. He’d smelled this person in the bar sitting somewhere behind the two of them, and it hadn’t raised his hackles then.

But now, as the human pushes open the door, Jack bristles. He zips up and turns around to face a broad-shouldered man with icy blue eyes and blonde hair in a high and tight sort of military cut. He’s holding two pistols and they’re both pointed right at Jack.

If this is a robbery, this man has picked the wrong guy to try it with, but Jack suspects this is something personal. Jack wills his claws to grow and harden ever so slightly, hoping that the man won’t notice.

“Those won’t work on me,” Jack warns.

The man gives him a crooked smile and holsters one of the guns. “Sure,” he says, still holding up the gun in his right hand, “Maybe that one won’t. That one’s for your friend. But this one will. Silver bullets, blessed by the local padre.”

Jack’s lip pulls back into a snarl. At this distance, the man won’t miss his heart, and a blessed silver bullet will wound him as much and for as long as a regular bullet would a human being.

“Let’s step into the alleyway for more privacy?” the man invites, gesturing with his head. “After you.”

Jack considers howling for Vid, but knows it won’t do any good. He’d be dead before Vid got there, even with his gift of speed. And then what? The hunter would kill him too?

“Do it here,” Jack says confidently, even though he’s afraid. He doesn’t want to die, which surprises him. Shouldn’t he already be tired of living?

The man considers it for a moment. “I’d rather not,” he replies. “But if you attack me here, I _will_ shoot out your kneecaps. Out of necessity. Then I’ll _drag_ you into the alley. So I suppose you do have some choices to make.”

Jack complies. If he’s going to go, he’d rather do it quickly.

The alleyway is somehow more disgusting than the bathroom, and seems to be used more often. The buildings on either side shield it from the sun, so it’s dark and cool, hidden from the street.

“On your knees,” the man orders.

Again, Jack complies.

“Good dog,” the man says with an audible smile. He places the barrel of the gun to the back of Jack’s head and cocks the hammer.

Which is exactly when the back door of the bar slams open, and Jack hears a strangled scream from the man. The gun goes off to the right of Jack’s head, and takes half his ear off with it. But Jack recovers quickly and flips around.

Vid is on top of the man, his jaw clamped over the man’s left cheekbone and eye. He’s drinking deep, his fingers curled around the man’s back and neck, his legs wrapped around the torso.

Jack watches in horror as, within the span of a second, likely no longer than it took him to turn around, the man draws the other gun and fires.

Vid springs backward, reacting instinctively to the threat, but the bullet catches him in the arm and he cries out.

At the sight, Jack shifts completely, his face, arms, and hands elongating, his teeth sharpening, the hair on his body filling in without fully covering his skin. He lunges at the man, looking like a nightmare— not quite an animal, and not quite a human, a bipedal, hulking, fleshy monster.

The man tastes sour, spoiled, and after Jack rips his throat out he spits and returns to human form. He rushes to Vid immediately, his face pinched with worry.

Vid shoos him away, holding his own arm tightly. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” Vid says, but jack hates the pain visible on his face. Vid pulls his hand away and then, his face contorting, his teeth clenched, he pokes his fingers into the wound. He comes out with a bullet. Though the casing is made of brass, the tip is made of wood, splintered and burned.

“Fuck,” Jack says. He pulls out his handkerchief and ties it tight around the wound.

Vid yelps.

“Vid…” Jack starts. He still looks worried.

“I promise I’ll be okay,” Vid assures him. “It’s not gonna kill me. It’s just unpleasant.”

Jack looks back at the man’s mangled corpse and wishes he could kill him again.

“Jack,” Vid says softly.

“Yeah Vid?”

Vid reaches out and grabs Jack’s hand. “I was scared,” he confesses. “that I was going to lose you.”


	4. Undead Existential Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober Ficlet, Day 4  
> Prompt No. 5 (subbed for Prompt No. 4): Where do You Think You're Going?  
> (On the run)  
> He just wants to know where he came from.
> 
> Trigger/Content warnings: blood, stitches, scars

He adjusts the collar of his turtleneck and shrugs his canvas duster up higher on his shoulders. He wears black leather driving gloves that are tailored to perfectly fit his mismatched fingers. His oversized mirrored aviators cover most of the top half of his face.

Every scar is covered except the one that runs across his forehead. He can live with that. Plenty of humans have scars on their faces. Heavy makeup keeps the skin above the scar and below it the same shade. It’s hardly conspicuous.

The rest of his body is another story. It’s a hodgepodge of parts and patched skin. As far as he can tell, his flesh consists of at least eight different bodies of various skin tones. His left arm is ever so slightly longer than his right and his fingers are different lengths to accommodate for the difference. His torso is sectioned off into three distinct pieces: two at the top, and one across his middle. His legs, while carefully balanced, are a jigsaw puzzle, and his feet are two different shoe sizes. Every piece is outlined by a perfect line that better resembles a welding seam than a scar.

Whoever made him wasn’t looking for consistency or aesthetic perfection. But he is more or less proportional, and if he covers up, he can pass for human.

He sits now at the counter of a diner. He feels out of place here. But the cheeseburger in front of him smells amazing, and for a moment, he thinks he might enjoy his afternoon.

He feels his first bite in his salivary glands— a pleasant pain that reminds him that he’s hungry. He thinks about the intricacies of his nervous system, and the hours, possibly years of work it must have required to connect the individual pathways and make sure they provide the right feedback to his brain.

He guesses that the purpose of this work was not to give him the pleasure of enjoying a cheeseburger in a greasy spoon by the side of the 101, or for him to feel the dry heat of a summer’s day in the mojave desert. The purpose was not for him to live his life like a normal human being— being able to feel the fur of a cat when he pets it or smell the earthy, mineral scent of fresh rain. He exists for the benefit of others. He just doesn’t know who.

He can’t say how he knows for sure that he’s dead, or at least, that his individual parts are dead. He just knows that it’s true. He feels it in his nightmares, in the mix of memories he has that can’t possibly be his.

He’s not sure where he came from. How long he’s been alive, or, as the case may be— dead. Life after death is not all it’s cracked up to be.

Whatever force flows through him, it compels him to keep going. To survive, though he can’t imagine why.

So here he is with a duffle bag full of stolen cash tucked under the steel and formica table.

The bullets had hurt when they passed through him. He was surprised at the sight of his own blood— a toxic, disgusting-looking neon green goo that smelled like alcohol and motor oil mixed together. Though he has memories of pain, of someone else’s pain, this was new. But so was the adrenaline. He kept running. He slipped away

At the motel he probed his wounds with curious fingers, grunting at the pain, surprised at its intensity, but desperate to understand. He came away with no more knowledge of his origins than he’d had before.

_How long. How long have I been like this?_

He pays for his meal and returns to his room, where he checks his bandages. He’s bled through from the one on his stomach, next to his stolen belly button. As he’s re-dressing the wound, there’s a clattering knock at the door.

He freezes. He’s not dressed in his human clothes, and is sitting there shirtless, his segmented chest and arms bare, his different-colored eyes uncovered by sunglasses.

The knock gets louder, then terminates in a short, distinct rhythm. “Zachariah,” a voice says sharply on the other side of the door, “It’s me! Let me in god damn it.”

Zachariah. That’s his name. He remembers now. He feels compelled, in a way that confuses him, to answer the door.

As soon as it opens, a scruffy, nervous-looking brunette man pushes his way in, locking the door behind him and sliding the deadbolt closed.

“I told you to meet at the van!” he says angrily, pushing Zachariah backward as he advances. He pushes him all the way to the bed.

Zachariah sits down and just stares up at him.

“Fuck. Every goddamn time… it’s probably your fluids. You lose too much, you start to get buggy. Forget things.” He pinches the bridge of his nose as if he’s this close to losing it. “Your name is Zachariah, my name is John, you’re my personal construct, we just robbed a fucking bank and we have to get out of here.”

“Construct?”

John groans irritably. “Oh my god. Yes. You are a fucking construct… a golem, a pile of human scraps magically and mechanically animated. We’re uh… partners.”

Zachariah looks at him suspiciously, doubting that “partners” is the right word for their relationship, but finds himself unable to argue. John clearly holds some sort of sway over him that he can’t break through.

John looks at Zachariah’s wounds. “Not too bad,” he says to himself. “Let’s move.” John grabs the duffle bag and heads out the door swiftly.

He follows John numbly out to the car, where they both notice activity coming from up the street. A crowd of people are heading toward them on foot. 

“Get in the car now,” John orders, and Zachariah finds himself unable to resist.

John jumps in the driver’s seat and hits the gas. “Why didn’t you wait for me?” he whines as they floor it down the highway.

The cops are close behind, and John is swerving all over the road. Zachariah looks over at him nervously. “Why are we doing this?”

“Why? The fuck you mean, _why?_ ” He looks away from the road for just a second, but it’s enough.

“Did I kill anyone?”

John looks at him as if he’s trying to figure out what the right answer is. The hesitation is enough for Zachariah to know.

“Am I… _real_?”

John keeps his eyes on the road, seems irritated. “Yes. Jesus. You’re inquisitive this time around.”

Zachariah doesn’t know exactly what that means, but as he looks back at the flashing lights behind him, and ahead at the sizzling highway, he gets the feeling he’s done this all before.

“I mean, do I have a soul?”

“Does anyone?” John asks. The question seems to calm him somewhat. “I can sew dead people together and make the resulting creature walk and talk and think… I’ve thought a lot about what that means, just like, existentially. Still don’t have an answer.”

Zachariah thinks about it for a bit, and remembers many lives’ worth of thinking about the same thing before. He hasn’t solved it before. Doesn’t see why he would now. “Do we usually get away?” Zachariah asks. “You know, in this sort of situation?”

John shrugs. “ _I_ do.”


	5. Discount Demonology, Part 1/5 (OC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober Ficlet, Day 6
> 
> Prompts:  
> No. 12 “I Think I’ve Broken Something” (broken bones)  
> No. 11 “Psych 101” (Struggling)  
> No. 17 “I Did Not See That Coming (blackmail)
> 
> Cecil's evocations are third rate at best, his demonology is rusty (he can summon them but he can’t remember their names) and his mastery of defensive magic is laughable.
> 
> Trigger/Content warnings: graphic description of injury, broken bones, dislocation, broken nose, blood

Cecil is distracted. His last job paid next to nothing, very nearly cost him his life, and almost leveled half of the downtown area. Now he’s persona non grata with the locals and the city council, and the mayor’s on his ass. Probably time to move on again. Maybe if the city were just a hair more magically hospitable, he could do his job properly

But that’s a lie. He knows that wouldn’t make a difference. His evocations are third rate at best, his demonology is rusty (he can summon them but he can’t remember their names) and his mastery of defensive magic is laughable.

He passes under the flickering fluorescent lights, the textured plastic covers cracked or missing on essentially every single one of them. The hallway is silent except for the lights' migraine-inducing hum, the occasional click of misfiring electricity. As cheap as everything in the building is, for whatever reason the walls are thick and relatively sound proof. Cecil almost never sees or hears his neighbors. Doesn’t know them. Doesn’t care to.

He’s halfway to the elevator, passing a hallway that has been dark for weeks now, the bulbs all either burnt out or shattered, and he feels that sense of other bodies near him... of a threat somewhere closeby. As soon as he thinks it, a burst of crushing energy collides with the middle of his face and closes like a vice around his nose, breaking it instantly. His vision is completely white, then there's the black and red swirling of the inside of his eyelids. The crunch of cartilage and bone is all he hears.

Cecil may not be the quickest caster, but he compensates by knowing how to handle himself in a physical fight. Your opponent can’t cast if they’re too distracted.

In the precious seconds before the pain sets in, he throws a devastating blow to the assailant’s armpit, under their still-raised arm, aiming for the nerve cluster there. It connects with a meaty slap and the hollow echo of a rattled ribcage. The person drops immediately, holding the spot as their arm goes numb. He recognizes the assailant immediately and is confused.

Silas’s jarringly symmetrical face stares up at him from the ground, his eyes sharp, not with pain but with fury. Silas always fights angry, and it works for him. His dirty blonde hair is slicked back into an aggressive bun that looks tight enough to pull his scalp off. Cecil still feels pangs of nostalgia, remembering the time they spent together in London, the trip to Morocco, or even the simple domesticity of their days spent in Silas’s New York apartment.

He has no time to wax sentimental however, as he senses more movement, and from the way the atmosphere behind him changes, it’s someone or something massive. From the muffled sound of quiet feet he knows there are at least two more attackers whose physical composition he can’t quite read yet. He throws his left elbow back into the wide, thick stomach. It’s like punching drywall-- it gives, but not enough, and the huge figure grabs him by the same arm the second it hits, flipping Cecil around bodily. 

Cecil stares up into the square jaw of a mean-looking demon with deeply pock-marked cheeks. A thick beard, dyed a garish shade of neon pink, stands out against his avocado-green skin. The beard is a clear attempt to cover the scars, but there’s no hiding them, and they give a menacing, hard look to his face. Pinkbeard is shirtless, revealing comically huge muscles.

Cecil knows that Pinkbeard’s grip will be too strong for him, but he still tries to roll out of the hold in a motion he’s done a million times before. It works on humans, but on a seven foot demon it’s a bit of a fool’s errand.

Pinkbeard yanks Cecil’s arm down and shakes it with such force that Cecil’s shoulder and elbow both dislocate at the same time. It is a surprisingly restrained attack, considering what Pinkbeard is capable of. Cecil manages to let out only a yelp, which he swallows quickly. He has loose joints anyway, and even though the arm is now essentially useless for this fight, he can cope. He’s mostly just surprised at how minor the damage is. _It could have been worse. He literally could have ripped my arm off. I can still get through this._

Cecil manages to use his right fist to connect with an uppercut to the demon’s chin and a knee to his crotch, but it similarly has no effect. Cecil quickly slides his hand to the small sheath on his thigh and comes back up with his hunting knife. By the time it’s out and in his hand the other two attackers are on either side of him.

Silas is standing back up behind him. “Settle down, Cee,” he says forcefully, his voice loud but even. “We just need to talk.”

Cecil ignores him, has no reason to trust him. He plants the knife in the demon’s shoulder. It slides into the flesh all the way to the hilt. There’s no reaction. Cecil recovers quickly, not indulging in the shock of seeing someone take a stab wound like that without any reaction whatsoever.

Pinkbeard still has a hold on his elbow and Cecil, ignoring the tearing pain in his shoulder, turns slightly and leans backward toward the man on his left. This opponent is a well-manicured blonde human. Cecil cracks against Blondie’s closed mouth with the back of his head and feels the give of the incisors and the pop of a dislocated jaw. To the man’s credit, Blondie only grunts quietly, and takes one step back. At the same time, Cecil kicks into the solar plexus of the person on his right, a tall, muscular, androgynous human with blue hair pulled back into tight braids.

Braids is faster than he is, swats his leg back down and plants his foot on the floor with their boot, while in one smooth motion they have his right wrist in one hand and their other arm wrapped around his neck. They’re exerting just enough pressure to keep him still without choking him, though the threat is there. As Cecil’s distracted, Blondie puts a knife up under his ribs and presses in ever so slightly, a tiny poke just to let him know it’s there. He feels the cold prickle of panic, of dread threatening to take control, but he swallows it down. He won’t be scared. He won’t let them push him that far. Even if he’s about to die.

He’s still struggling, never one to give up. He can still just barely move the fingers on his left hand, and he starts to try casting a last-ditch fire spell.

He hears Silas groan in frustration as he notices the attempt. Silas shouts, furious, “Alkoth, _break his arm_!”

Cecil is immobilized-- held by both arms, a chokehold on his throat, and a knife that is one swift movement away from puncturing his lung. There’s nothing he can do. He’s outnumbered, they are all stronger than him, and they caught him flat footed. 

Pinkbeard… _Alkoth_... has never let up an inch of pressure on Cecil’s arm, and the giant’s next action is so quick and deliberate that Cecil doesn’t even see him moving. Alkoth places one hand on Cecil’s elbow and one on his wrist. With no hesitation he wrings Cecil’s forearm like a wet towel, as if the motion were nothing to him. The sound of popping and grinding is audible to everyone present. Electric agony radiates from the source of the injury as if it were a nuclear reaction in his skeleton, running along every nerve and into his brain.

The scream is instinctive and loud, ringing through the concrete hallway. By the time Cecil realizes he’s doing it he clamps his mouth shut and swallows it into a screeching groan, clenching his jaw so hard he feels like his teeth might crack.

“Are you _done_ ,” Silas hisses at him like some sort of reptile on the attack.

He nods, absolutely breathless. If it didn’t hurt so goddamn much he’d be humiliated. _There will be time to wallow in embarrassment and shame later._

He does his level best to draw in a steady breath, but his swelling, bleeding nose inhibits this and it’s obvious he’s gasping.

Silas nods at the rest of the team and they back off, taking their hands away from him, but still standing in a fight-ready stance. He is surprised, relieved, and a bit proud that he only sways, and manages to stay standing. He moves his right hand to lightly hover over his left, just to keep it from moving too much. Blood from his nose is dripping on the filthy concrete between his boots.

He spits, trying to find his voice. He finds he can’t unclench his jaw, so he speaks through his teeth. “What the _fuck_ !” he manages, his dark eyes glaring directly at the only person in the group he recognizes. “Silas, what the _fuck_?”

“Stoker wants your pet." Silas’s anger is cooling, Cecil can tell, now that the fight is through and Silas has emerged the victor.

Pain is starting to overcome his adrenaline and initial shock, and Cecil starts to feel nauseated, even though he is being careful to keep his head forward so he won’t swallow any blood. They need to hurry this conversation along if he wants to keep standing, but he has to know. “You’re working with _him_?”

“The money’s good, Cecil. You know that.” He doesn’t sound sorry. Cecil knows he probably isn’t. But he doesn’t exactly sound proud either.

Cecil gently shakes his head, but not too hard, because he’s getting dizzy. “I don’t know what you mean by pet. I don’t have a dog.”

“You know what I mean. Stoker wants it. By Friday.”

“Look, Silas— ”

“Don’t make Al break your other arm.”

Cecil steadies his breath. “Just… I need a bit more time. I don’t know where it is right now… I’ve misplaced it. You know these devils.” He gestures at Alkoth with his head. “They have a mind of their own.”

Silas shrugs. “All the same. I’m not authorized to negotiate. You have until Friday or we break your legs next,” he says, motioning to his cronies to join him. “We both know you have the demon already. This is a courtesy call for you to go to whatever little hole you hid it in and retrieve it for my very merciful employer.”

He doesn’t try to argue anymore, knowing it will just bring more pain his way.

Silas is already sauntering away from him, infuriatingly unconcerned about retaliation. He knows Cecil won’t make a move. The team follows him closely, and Blondie, holding his own jaw up with one hand, presses the elevator door button for Silas.

“He’s being more than charitable by giving you till the end of the week,” Silas says, just loud enough for him to hear. The doors slide open almost immediately after his final word. Of course they do. Silas always has luck and timing on his side.

“You know how his contracts usually end, Silas,” Cecil calls after him.

As Silas steps into the elevator, he finally turns around to face Cecil. “That only matters if your contract ends.”

He watches Silas disappear as the doors slide closed in front of him, and as soon as he’s truly alone and unwatched, he sways sideways into the wall, letting his head rest there. He knows if he sits down he’ll have to bend his arm and the thought is more than he can bear at the moment. 

He allows himself less than a minute to rest before he turns and stumbles back to the apartment, leaning against the wall every few steps to take a shaky breath. The pain from his mangled arm and smashed nose is overpowering. He fights to keep going. He has to get his altar materials. He has to call Baz.


	6. Discount Demonology Part 2/5 (OC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober Ficlet, Day 7
> 
> Prompts:  
> No. 20 “Toto, I Have a Feeling We’re Not in Kansas Anymore” (field medicine)  
> No. 15 “Into the Unknown” (possession)  
> No. 6 “Please” (stop, please; no more)  
> No. 26 "If You Thought the Head Trauma Was Bad" (migraine)
> 
> Baz has to hurt Cecil to help him.
> 
> Trigger/Content warnings: graphic description of injury, broken bones, dislocation, broken nose, blood, pain descriptions, possession

Baz’Riloth, or “Baz,” as he’s known to friends (Or to be more accurate, “friend.” He only has the one), is enjoying a cold beer and binge watching a horror series. He loves to critique the depictions of the demonic, but also enjoys it in spite of himself. Just as the current episode gets to the good part, the living room starts to shrink around him.

“Now?” he says to himself in exasperation.

The air pressure increases, then decreases, and his ears pop. He considers trying to take another sip of his beer before he’s sucked into the abyssal highway, but thinks better of it and sets the can down on the side table.

Being summoned is much more unpleasant when you try to resist. And all low level demons know that resistance is futile.

There’s a stretching feeling that comes over his body, and the feeling like a wet blanket being tightened around him. He takes a deep breath, lets it out. There’s only one person who can summon him, and Baz hopes Cecil has a damn good reason for it. He could have just called.

He’s spit out, temporarily blind from the journey, slightly dizzy, but this isn’t his first rodeo, so he’s able to fight the nausea usually associated with this type of travel. He comes back around to full awareness.

“God damn it, Cecil, I was in the middle of— “

But he cuts himself off when he sees his friend, sitting slumped against a concrete pillar just outside the summoning circle.

Cecil’s face is a mess of gore, bruising across the bridge of his now-crooked nose and in the corners of his eyes, dried and fresh blood coagulating on his mouth, chin and neck, crusting his shirt to his chest. His left arm hangs limp at his side, twisted. He’s breathing irregularly, holding his breath for a few seconds at a time before letting it out shakily.

“Jesus-jumping-jack-christ,” Baz breathes, rushing forward with his hands out toward Cecil.

Cecil holds up his good hand to slow him down. “Easy,” he says.

Baz kneels beside him. “What the hell happened?”

His friend closes his eyes and sighs, seems to breathe a bit easier now that he’s here. “Goon squad,” he says, “sent by Stoker.”

Baz bristles.

“Baz, they’re looking for you.”

“What? Me? Why?”

Cecil half-shrugs, then appears to immediately regret it, hissing a bit as he relaxes his shoulders. “I don’t know. But we’ve gotta get out of here.”

“We need to get you to a hospital is what,” Baz says, now fully taking in the sight of his friend. He doesn’t even know how Cecil was able to perform the summoning spell. It looks like he can’t move the fingers on his left hand. It must have taken over an hour.

“No. They’ll find us. I can’t. I can’t imagine what Stoker wants you for, but I know it can’t be good.”

“Cee—-”

“No. You’re gonna have to help me here. I’m fine except for my arm… I can keep moving if you set it.”

“Set it? Are you serious? I wouldn’t even know where to start.” Baz shakes his head. “We don’t… our bones can’t break…”

“Look,” Cecil swallows. “It’ll be okay. I already started drinking… so it’s not gonna hurt as much. I’ll guide you through it. I brought a few things you can use for first aid.”

Baz notices the half empty bottle sitting beside Cecil, next to his bag, which appears to have been dumped upside down, its contents scattered on the ground. “I had trouble getting the summoning supplies out,” Cecil explains. “But nevermind that. Just absorb the knowledge from me.”

“It’ll hurt a bit,” Baz warns. He knows he has to do this. He knows Cecil is right about the hospital. Too many demons work there, and if Stoker did this, it’s not safe. “It gives a lot of humans migraines.”

Cecil chuckles half heartedly. “Can’t hurt even half as much as I do already.”

Baz only hesitates for a moment longer before placing his hand tenderly across Cecil’s forehead. He concentrates.

Cecil grunts softly at the sudden discomfort, then closes his eyes tight and swallows. It only takes a moment for Baz to find the information, because Cecil is offering it freely. Baz frowns when he understands what he has to do.

When he releases Cecil’s mind and pulls his hand away, he can see that Cecil has the migraine side effect. His eyes are squinted, even the low light of the warehouse exacerbating the pain. All the alcohol can’t possibly help either.

“Just go ahead,” Cecil croaks. “We’ve gotta get going.”

Before even touching Cecil’s arm, Baz knows it’s bad. He can see the pit in the skin where the ball of the humerus has been separated from the shoulder, he sees the same at the elbow, and the forearm is so misshapen, bruised and swollen that it doesn’t even look like it’s part of a human body. Baz very carefully reaches over and runs his hands over the injured limb.

Baz’s fingers press into the arm, pushing flesh against bone and muscle. He can see Cecil bite his lip to keep from making a sound, but several anguished moans are audible deep in his throat. Baz is gently probing to get a diagnosis on where the injuries are and the shape of them. He needs to assess before he can treat anything, to make sure he’ll do it right.

Baz feels space where there shouldn’t be any, slack in tendons that should be taught, and sharp points of displaced bone. Cecil is sweating profusely but Baz can feel that his skin is cold to the touch, and he’s shivering. He knows that Baz is in incredible pain and that he’s making that worse by touching him like this.

Baz glances back up at Cecil, and he knows he must be showing sympathy and concern in his expression because Cecil averts his eyes. He always reacts that way to pity. With distaste, with fear. So the demon looks away and continues his work.

“Lie down,” Baz says. He scrunches up the empty duffle bag to cushion Cecil’s head. Cecil complies, but needs Baz’s help to get down. _Time to rip off the bandaid._

He removes Cecil’s belt and has him bite down on it. He puts his hand over Cecil’s heart for a moment, and Cecil grabs it for reassurance before the work begins

Baz focuses on the dislocations first, grabbing Cecil’s upper arm, pulling the humerus away from the shoulder, straight out, then up, hears the soft “thunk” of the ball moving back into place. Cecil is stifling cries, his eyes shut tight. The elbow is a little trickier, since Baz can’t really use Cecil’s wrist to pull it back into place, so he has less leverage. It takes longer, and Cecil hyperventilates a little.

Once the joints are in place, the hard part begins.

“You have to try to hold still,” Baz directs, but he knows that Cecil already knows this. It came from his head. Baz is just stalling, not wanting to do what’s next.

He grabs Cecil’s forearm just above the break, and pulls it apart as much as he can, moving the ends of the bone away from each other. Cecil is full on screaming now through his teeth, the sound echoing off the expansive walls, ringing through the empty space.

Baz twists in the opposite direction of the original injury. Once Cecil’s hand and wrist are at least sitting in the correct orientation to his body, Baz lets go. He puts both hands over the break itself and begins manipulating the pieces into place. There are three large pieces that need to be forced together, like a gruesome puzzle.

As Baz’s thumbs and fingers push and pull, the sounds of Cecil’s screaming become almost unbearable.

“Please, stop!” Cecil cries out, his eyes looking at Baz pleadingly. Baz has no idea what this feels like, but he can almost imagine, just looking at Cecil’s face. “No more! Please!”

Baz doesn’t let up. “I _can’t_ ,” he says sorrowfully. “I’m sorry, Cee, I’m so sorry… it’s almost over.”

Baz can feel the bones sliding, scraping against each other, imagines the muscles tearing as he does so. The screaming stops. Cecil has passed out. Baz finishes as quickly as he can, still trying to be mindful of getting it right. He picks up the two wooden spoons that Cecil brought along, and pads them with gauze against the skin, then clamps them together over the arm, up to the fingers, immobilizing the wrist. He wraps an elastic bandage around them to hold them in place, trying to to wrap too tight, to account for the continued swelling that will come.

Cecil is in and out of consciousness, whimpering every now and then.

Baz finds a discarded piece of wood to splint the elbow, since the spoons aren’t long enough, and finishes wrapping the whole arm so that it’s immobilized at a ninety degree angle from mid bicep to fingertips. He grabs the black silk altar cloth and fashions a sling, pulls it over Cecil’s head, and gently guides the heavily bandaged appendage into the fabric. He reaches up and tenderly wipes the sweat from Cecil’s forehead.

“We’re done,” he whispers, “It’s over.”

Cecil is panting, clearly still in pain, but seems relieved. He coughs, clears his throat.

Baz wishes they had ice. He wishes they had a bed for Cecil to rest in. He wishes he could wash the blood from his friend’s face. He settles for just holding his hand. “Can we at least go to a hotel?” he asks.

“Possess me,” is Cecil’s reply.

“What?”

“Do it. It’s the safest way for us to travel.”

“Fuck you,” Baz says. “It would be fucking torture for you. _More_ torture. Are you really that much of a masochist?”

“I can compel you, if I have to. I _did_ summon you, after all.”

“Really?” Baz asks, letting go of Cecil’s hand. “Are you kidding me? And how the fuck are you gonna do that. You’re flat on your back. You suck at casting on a good day. Pretty sure it’ll be impossible for you to do it one handed.”

Cecil’s face turns from pained to angry. “I’m trying to protect your stupid ass. The least you can do is come along.”

“I never asked you to protect me. Just turn me in, get it over with. Get on with your life.”

“I can’t,” he says. There’s a long enough pause that Baz knows there’s something else he wants to say. Instead, he says, “You know that’s not how this works. If they want to use you for something, they’ll need my blood too.”

Baz considers this. It’s a possibility. If Stoker's main goal is simply to destroy Baz, then Cecil will be fine. But if he wants to transfer power, a sacrifice is required.

“I don’t want to hurt you any more,” Baz responds weakly.

“You’re not hurting me,” Cecil lies. “I’m sorry I lost it there for a minute, while you were helping me. I’ve never needed that kind of treatment in the field… it surprised me.”

The demon takes a deep breath.

“I’ll be okay, and we’ll be safer. We’ll both be safer.”

There’s no use in arguing further.

Baz concentrates on his own body, on the ebb and flow of blood, on the beating of his heart. His physiology is different from humans, even if he wears the illusory veil of human appearance. He meditates on the composition of his spiked skeleton, the barbs on his ribcage, the organs covered in a chitinous armor.

He lays his hands on Cecil’s chest and stomach. He reads the location of Cecil’s innards, of his smooth skeleton, the breaks in his arm, the torn ligaments and muscles, the fractured nose, the aching head, the light-sensitive eyes, the nauseous stomach. This will be almost as tortuous for him as it will be for Cecil.

Stilling himself, calming his heart, Baz begins to meld with Cecil.

They are both screaming, light emanating from their bodies as Baz begins to fade, his corporeal form dissipating like rusted metal crumbling. His insides become Cecil’s insides, and vice versa. Though there is no actual physical damage, both of their minds perceive every movement as if it’s completely real.

They’re on fire. They’re burning alive, every nerve igniting and firing off in agony in the synapses of their brains. Baz can feel the pain he caused Cecil while treating his arm, and tears stream down his face. He has never possessed an injured human before, never felt physical pain like this.

By the time he is fully contained within Cecil’s form, Cecil is unconscious again. Baz is alone in there for now, but can still maneuver Cecil’s body.

He carefully sits up. He can still feel Cecil’s pain, but it’s more distant now, more manageable. He scrapes together the contents of the altar, the objects that have fallen out of Cecil’s bag, and pushes them back into the duffle. He’s surprised at how difficult it is to do so with one arm, especially since it’s Cecil’s off hand.

Humans are clumsy, slow creatures, full of needs that demons don’t even think about. Everything is a chore. For example, Cecil is craving a cigarette, and needs to pee, and it’s a terribly inconvenient time.

He takes care of the latter, committing the unpleasant task in a corner, again thinking about how much bullshit humans have to put up with. He then clumsily lights a cigarette, slaps on Cecil’s sunglasses, grabs the duffle and heads out into the afternoon, looking at everything through a human’s clouded eyes.


	7. Discount Demonology, Part 3/5 (OC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober Ficlet, Day 7
> 
> Prompts:  
> No. 9 “For the Greater Good” (take me instead)(run!)  
> Alt. 10 (nightmares)
> 
> Baz takes their shared body and hits the road.
> 
> Trigger/Content warnings: vaguely religious themes, broken bones, description of corpse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear this was supposed to be a short one, like the others in the series, but it kind of grew out of control on me, so I just went with it.

_Giant, shaggy-barked trees line my peripheral vision. I feel cold moisture in the air. I hear water nearby, and animals I can’t name or identify chitter and cry. I’m outside of myself, seeing myself from a theater seat, the forest inset in a stretching room._

_In a moment, everything is on fire, chunks of burning debris fall around me, the stench of rotting corpses is in my nose, the screams of a thousand voices are pressing on my ears._

_A pair of disembodied, bloodied hands reach for me and I try to run. Instead, I slip on moss and fall on my face, and the hands push on top of me, crushing themselves and me. I fight, but they’re too heavy. The sound of bones crunching is so loud I can’t hear anything else, and I can’t tell if it’s my skeleton breaking or the fingers above me. Maybe it’s both._

_Under the oppressive weight of the hands that are killing me, I turn myself to the side as well as I can, trying to find a spot of air, and when I open my eyes, I see her, a woman lying next to me, her face a faded green. Her eyes are wide open, but they’re rotten and runny like egg whites, and when I open my mouth to scream, not even a whisper escapes._

  
Cecil awakes in fright to a body that is already in motion. Baz has somehow found a car, accessed Cecil’s ability to drive, and is speeding down the highway, nothing but the ochre yellow of desert stretching away from them and behind. Cecil looks in the rear view mirror. No one is following. He takes back control of the body.

Baz is obviously startled by Cecil’s sudden consciousness and commandeering of the body. The body gasps, its heart rate elevated, sweat breaking out on its skin. _I’d hoped you’d sleep a little longer_ , Baz says, his voice only audible in Cecil’s mind.

“I was having a nightmare,” Cecil says aloud. “Couldn’t you tell?”

_I was giving you privacy._

Cecil shows him the memory, consenting for his waking thoughts to be shared. “Is that from your imagination or mine?”

_Both._

“Who is she?” Cecil asks, trying to shake the vision of her dead face from his head.

 _I don’t want to talk about it._  
Cecil leaves it alone. He looks in the mirror again. He notices that his face has been washed, his nose set and splinted, and the bruising on his face is considerably darker, as if at least a day has passed. He looks down. He’s wearing a new black t-shirt and new pants. His arm is in a huge cast, wrapped in clean black fiberglass. He notices that he’s a bit sleepy, and the pain seems distant and dull.

“Baz?”

_Yes?_

“How long have we been on the road?”

Baz hesitates. _Three days._

“Three fucking days? Were you suppressing my consciousness? Making me sleep?” It’s a trick Baz can only do when he possesses someone, and he usually only does it with Cecil’s consent.

_Just focus on the road please._

“Did you stop at a hospital?”

_Maybe. But it was miles and miles outside of the city. I drove almost two whole days before stopping._

“That was fucking stupid, Baz. Really fucking stupid,” Cecil says, shaking his head. “Any demon there could have sensed you. And besides, we had it under control!”

_We were in so much pain, Cecil. I don’t know how you could stand it. You should have seen the X-ray, it was absolutely disgusting. A fucking wooden spoon and a stick of kindling wasn’t going to hold that mess together. Plus, they gave us pills and it helped so much._

“So we’re on pain meds, too? That’s just fucking great. It’s going to affect our concentration. We probably shouldn’t even be driving.” Cecil scoffs. “You have no sense of self preservation. Pain is temporary. Death is forever.”

_You’re welcome._

Cecil sighs. He does appreciate the relief. “Thanks for going with the black on the cast.”

_We do have an aesthetic to maintain._

“I’m sorry you were in pain,” Cecil says softly, regretting how harsh he’s been.

_Your pain is my pain. I’m sorry you humans have to live with that kind of shit._

They stop at a highly dubious motel somewhere over the state line. The desert is so barren that the sun looks like it’s actually touching the sand as it sets on the horizon line. The heat lingers, even though it’s mid fall, but the night will be cold.

There’s a 24 hour diner attached to the motel, so dusty that it almost fades completely into the landscape. The plastic sign is cracked and flickering. They stumble in, and Cecil is suddenly very glad that Baz took the time to get him cleaned up. They’re already getting stared at, he can’t imagine what it would be like if they were covered in blood.

Baz insists that they “ _feed the body_ ,” so they eat half a burger and some fries, drink an obscenely large serving of sugary soda, and head to the room.

“I don’t want to sleep anymore,” Cecil complains, yawning.

_You should. The body needs to heal._

“It’s a broken arm, not a gut shot.”

_Your consciousness has been sleeping, but the body has been awake for days. And so have I._

But really, Cecil just doesn’t want to be alone in here, in this body, with the eyes closed, for hours, separate, but the same. Willful possession results in a feeling of oneness, and when Baz sleeps, Cecil will be desperately lonesome.

 _Take a couple of painkillers,_ Baz says, reading his mind, _just try to sleep, and we’ll wake up together in a few hours._

They awake to a thumping on the door. “Come out willingly, Cee,” Silas’s voice booms, “and I’ll make sure your death is painless.”

 _How did they find us?_ Baz asks desperately.

Cecil is already using the body to move furniture in front of the door to buy them time. The thumping continues, grows in intensity.

“You’ve gotta get out of the body…” Cecil says firmly. “Go out the bathroom window. You can make it through… this body can’t.”

_You can’t possibly think I would leave you._

“Get out of me, _now_!” Cecil cries.

_No._

The pounding on the door is getting louder, more forceful. They aren’t using fists and shoulders anymore. They’re using something heavy and made of metal.

Cecil starts beating on his own chest, chanting.

_What are you doing…_

Cecil doesn’t answer, just keeps spilling out words. Words that Baz can’t quite make out, but words that he can _feel_ in the core of his being. _Are you… Are you exorcising me??_

The words get louder, more desperate. Baz fights for control of the body’s tongue, tries to control the legs, to get them to run, but the words are too powerful. Cecil’s voice keeps rising, causing Baz pain, burning his mind, suppressing his consciousness.

_No. No!_

But it’s too late. Cecil can feel Baz being ripped from the body. It’s even more painful than it was when he entered, because he’s resisting. Their combined screaming is garbled but audible through the door, to their enemies that are trying to get to them. Who _will_ get to them. Any second.

Baz is ejected, and his corporeal form materializes in a steaming heap of smoke and ectoplasm that is vanishing by the moment. He collapses on the ground, shaking. While he’s still weakened, Cecil helps him dress in his spare clothes, then hauls him to his feet.

“Now get out of here. Run!”

“No!” Baz says defiantly.

Cecil takes a breath and thinks to himself. He figures out a solution. “If you get out, you can go get help,” he suggests, hoping that Baz will buy it. “Let them take me for now. Just for a little while. Let them think you’re still in me. To stall them.”

“Get help from who?”

“Anyone! If they take us both, we have no hope. None at all.”

Baz considers this for a second. “I will come back with help. I’ll find you,” he says, as he runs for the bathroom window. Cecil watches him go, and knows in his heart that they’ll never see each other again.

Silas and his team burst into the room moments later, and Cecil hands himself over to them willingly.


	8. Discount Demonology, Part 4/5 (OC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober Ficlet, Day 8
> 
> WARNING: This chapter is particularly gory!
> 
> Prompts:  
> No. 1 “Let’s Hang Out Sometime” (shackled)  
> No. 2 “In the Hands of the Enemy” (Kidnapped)  
> No.14 “Is something burning?” (branding)  
> No. 31 “Today’s Special: Torture” (theme inspired)  
> No. 9 “For the Greater Good” (ritual sacrifice)  
> No. 24 “You’re Not Making Any Sense” (Forced Mutism)
> 
> Stoker will get what he wants.
> 
> Trigger/Content warnings: gore, torture, burns, broken bones, graphic description of injury, graphic description of wounds, religion adjacent, ritual, knives, cutting, blood, hand injury, foot injury, stabbing, tendons, internal organs

Silas hits him with a binding spell as soon as he sets foot in the room. It knocks Cecil backwards so quickly he can’t catch himself, and his head bounces off the ground. At the pain of his injuries being jostled, Cecil lets out a short yelp, but his voice is quickly stolen from him by another spell.

Silas is casting with both hands, smoothly, effortlessly. He always did like to show off.

“I’ll let you use your legs for now,” he says with a mock gentleness. “It’ll be easier to get you to that oh-so-dreaded second location.”

Cecil has questions, but even if he could speak, he knows they won’t be answered. And he’s pretty sure he knows how this will end, even if he isn’t quite sure of the why.

“I heard you in there, attempting some spellwork,” Silas says. “Couldn’t quite make it out, but it sounds like it backfired on you, the amount of screaming you were doing. I have to admit it was pretty funny.”

_ Why is he like this? _ Cecil asks himself.  _ When did he become so cruel?  _ He and Silas were together years ago. A mage’s life is unnaturally long. Neither of them look older than 30, but their souls go back much further.

What happened in the 20 years since they’d shared a life together? Cecil realizes now, that their encounter in the hallway was the first time he saw Silas in over fifteen years.

The binding spell grips Cecil’s upper body like a giant hand, squeezing him, restricting his breathing to shallow gasps, pressing on his aching shoulder, his bruised face. His eyes are watering, and he can feel that his nose is starting to bleed again.

His vocal cords are raw and swollen, seized in place by the silence cantrip. Swallowing is labored and agonizing.

Silas has his little cadre with him, two humans and Al, the overgrown demon. Only mages can see demons for what they really are. To other humans, Al is just another person, like them. They may think he’s a bit tall, maybe a bodybuilder, with an odd taste for dying his facial hair garish colors, but they won’t see his physical form for what it really is, unless he wants them to.

To Silas and Cecil, Al is a brownish-green skinned demon with white eyes, no irises, no pupils. His strength is tremendous, even greater than you’d expect from someone that large. His teeth are those of some frightening deep sea carnivorous fish. Glittering scales adorn his wide shoulders.

“Sedra, bring the car around,” Silas says to the person with the blue braids. They nod once and walk off briskly. Ahead of him, Cecil sees a human body lying in the parking lot.

“We had to kill everyone,” Silas says casually, noticing the path of Cecil’s vision. “You understand.”

Cecil may be a bit of a recluse and an introvert, but it doesn’t mean he hates humans. Whether Silas wants to admit it or not, they are both human underneath their magical abilities. These are their people. He feels a deep shame and sadness for the wanton destruction of life.

Sedra pulls up in front of them in a sleek luxury SUV, and Cecil can’t help but sneer at the frivolity of it. The rear hatch slowly raises on a motorized hinge.

“Hank,” Silas says to the blonde. Cecil notices an excess of bruising around Hank’s jaw from where he’d dislocated it a few days ago and feels a small jolt of pride. “Put them in the back.”

Hank roughly leads Cecil by the collar of the shirt and shoves him into the trunk. Since Cecil’s arms are bound by the spell, Hank has to lift his legs up and over the bumper. Just as the hatch is closing, Cecil hears Silas cast one more spell.

“ _ Sleep. _ ”

“ _ Wake. _ ”

The silence spell is still in place when Cecil opens his eyes. He chokes a bit at first at the tightness of it before trying to take in his surroundings. Once he sees the state he’s in, he wishes he hadn’t.

They’ve removed the cast from his arm in order to straighten out his elbow, and placed shackles on his wrists and ankles, chaining him spread eagle to a cold stone altar. He’s shirtless and barefoot. The pain of his injured arm being further abused makes his head swim. He’s surrounded by flames that appear to be burning without fuel, and the area beyond them is completely dark, so he can’t tell how big the space is.

Silas stands on his left side, Hank on his right, Sedra at his feet. Above his head at the place of honor, stands Stoker. He smiles down at him.

“I’m going to have Silas give you your voice back for a moment,” Stoker explains. “And the  _ only  _ thing I want to hear from you both is compliance. Do you understand?”

Cecil feels his throat relax, and clears his throat. “Fuck y—”

His throat constricts again, more forcefully this time, and he gasps for air. Silas’s hand closes around his broken arm and squeezes. Cecil arches his back, bucks against the stone, kicks against the shackles at his feet. His mouth is open but nothing comes out.

“The demon is gone, must have flown the coop when he heard us coming, but you’ve done well,” he says to Silas. He runs his finger across Cecil’s forehead, then rubs his finger and thumb together. “I can still feel the residue. There’s a connection. And we can get him to summon our prize.”

“He only has one operational hand,” Silas points out sheepishly. “He won’t be able to perform the ritual.”

Stoker smiles at him. “Oh, my  _ boy _ , class is in session! If we perform the rite correctly, Baz’Tirihl will come whether he wants to or not. And without his voice, this moron won’t be able to tell him who he really is.”

Cecil is confused.  _ You’ve got the wrong demon, _ he wants to say.  _ That’s not his name… He can’t be... _

But Cecil has always been terrible with his demonology. Did he get it wrong?  _ Is Baz… Is Baz really Baz’Tirihl?  _ The _ Baz’Tirihl? _

“But… won’t the demon, just. Destroy us all?” Hank asks cautiously.

“You idiot,” Stoker spits. “Honestly. Silas, where do you find these guys? No. The demon won’t ‘ _ destrooyyy us alllll.’ _ He doesn’t even know who he is, because this hack called him by a different name.”

Cecil’s heart drops into his stomach. His slipshod work has finally turned itself on him in an unforgivable way. He never thought that his subpar demonology could fuck things up so badly. Normally, you get the name of a demon wrong, they just don’t appear. But somehow, be it dumb luck or an odd arrangement of cosmic circumstance, he  _ accidentally _ called an extremely powerful demon while simultaneously stripping him of his strength.

If Stoker gets hold of Baz in this state, it’s over. The destruction that Stoker could force Baz to unleash is immeasurable

“We’ll need the irons, the blessed water, and the silver knives for the ritual,” Stoker rattles off. No one moves. “That means  _ you _ Blondie! Go get my fucking materials, for fuck’s sake. Make yourself useful.”

While Hank is gone, Stoker takes Cecil’s head in his hands, giving him his full attention. “How did a fuck up like you manage to pull down a demon like that?”

_ Couldn’t tell ya. _

Hank comes back with a pretentiously fancy wooden chest. The long hilt of a weapon sticks up over the edge. Stoker takes the box from him, placing it out of Cecil’s sight.

“Let’s get this party started,” Stoker says, clearly amused with himself. Cecil’s eyes trace the path of his hands as he passes silver knives to Hank and Silas, and then a long, ornate branding iron to Sedra. Stoker himself holds a silver pitcher in his hands.

Cecil begins to shiver with anxiety. He’s a nobody… a tiny, microscopic cog in the magical machine. He’s not accustomed to this kind of physical pain. His last job, where he’d almost been killed, had been simply a close call. No injury to his person. A sidestep from a spell that could have leveled him completely. But pain hadn’t been a part of it.

What follows is worse than he could have imagined.

Stoker begins the chant, the cursed abyssal words issuing from his lips as easily as an exhaled breath. Unlike simpler, more practical spells, the most powerful ritualistic incantations are created spontaneously from the caster’s subconscious. The words have no translation, and can’t be understood linguistically, only viscerally. Names have meaning, sure, but the concrete parallels to language end there.

As the spell crackles around him, Cecil begins to hyperventilate. He tries to squeeze his eyes shut, but Stoker’s voice is roaring in his head:

_ Wake. See. _

The roaring of energy builds, the fire flaring up until everyone in the circle is sweating. Stoker nods to Hank and Silas, and they raise their daggers over their head, then bring them down, full force, into the centers of Cecil’s palms.

The knives cleave tendons that snake away from the cut like flat white worms. The blades slice through his bones as if they were made of wax. The veins around the wounds blacken. His hands feel like they’re burning from the inside out.

His vocal cords constrict further, begging to make a noise, pleading with him to let them scream, but the spell still holds. He tries to close his eyes again.

_ Wake. See. _

Stoker pours the water over Cecil’s bare chest, and it burns and smokes, his skin turning red, peeling. It trickles down his sides and begins to feel solid, like a blanket over his chest, squeezing, constricting his diaphragm enough to inhibit his breathing. He feels ribs bend, and his sternum dislocates with a gentle internal pop.

_ Wake. See. _

Cecil pulls pointlessly against the shackles, bucking and twisting, thrashing like an animal caught in a net. His broken arm bends unnaturally, but he’s too panicked to care. Silas casts another binding spell, this time immobilizing his entire body. He can’t even clench his teeth. Only his eyes can move.

Sedra has been heating the branding iron in the circle of flames. The ornate symbol glows the same color as the setting sun. Sedra smirks, then presses it against the sole of his foot. 

_ Wake. _

Stoker holds a knife now, leans over Cecil’s face, reaches for his stomach. Carefully he parts the skin of Cecil’s abdomen below his navel, from hip bone to hip bone. The tip splits muscle, down to the viscera, exposing but not quite touching the soft organs below. Hot, sticky blood pours out, pooling underneath him.

This is the height of what Cecil can tolerate. The searing, tearing sharpness of it, the displaced pain that forks out from the massive wound and winds its way into his every fiber. His body gives up, decides to black out. Except— 

_ WAKE. FEEL. _

With no unconsciousness to retreat to, and no way to comprehend the pain, every magical fiber of his body revolts at once. He feels power coursing through him, otherworldly strength he has never experienced.

He can tell that everyone in the room feels it too. Even Stoker takes a step back, astonished.

Cecil’s vocal cords tear open, freeing themselves by force from the silence spell. In a voice that he doesn’t recognize, he cries out to his friend, across space, across dimensions, and uses his true name.


	9. Discount Demonology, Part 5/5 (OC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober, Day 9
> 
> Prompts:  
> Alt. 3 (Comfort)  
> Alt. 4 (Stitches)  
> Alt. 15 (Carry/Support)
> 
> Baz remembers who he is and what he’s capable of.
> 
> Trigger/Content warnings: stitches, description of wounds, blood, graphic descriptions of death, graphic description of injuries, eye gore, gore, burning, crushing, gun, light body horror, references to torture

Baz is halfway to civilization, desperately searching his brain for the memory of a friendly face, for anyone who could possibly be sympathetic to Cecil and him. Someone who can help.

As he barrels down the desolate highway, he is stricken by a vision so clear that he swerves off the road, into the gravel of the soft shoulder, where the car comes to a jerking stop.

He sees, as if he is looking from above, Cecil’s prone body, wracked with pain, his eyes wild with madness. His hands are pinned down by knives, his eyes, nose, and ears are bleeding, his chest burned and bruised. He recognizes Stoker, dressed in an immaculate pinstripe suit. Stoker holds a silver knife, leans over, and with surgical precision and restraint, slices open Cecil’s lower abdomen.

Baz watches, horrified. It feels real, he knows it’s real. He feels connected to the image, through the empty space of the in-between.

And then a voice, as if possessed, rings in his head. A pained, animalistic voice, filled with power and magic. It carries something old, something ancient and evil, something from the depths of the most horrifying corners of the Underworld.

“My name,” he says aloud. “This is my name.”

The summoning process is smooth, seamless, unlike any he has experienced before. He has complete control over his movements, gliding through the dimensions between him and Cecil, seeing the expanse of stars and darkness on either side as he makes his way with purpose and strength.

Memories older than language surface, of who he is, of what he can do. It’s there in his mind with perfect clarity for him to access.

He sees the room ahead of him before he materializes. Stoker and his people are dumbstruck, confused, and Baz hears them bemoaning a failed silence spell, wondering how Cecil could have done it. “He’s just not powerful enough!”

_ But apparently he is, _ Baz thinks as he approaches.  _ Because here I am. _

His emergence in the room extinguishes the fire that surrounds the altar. His first action is to send Cecil into a peaceful and merciful sleep. He doesn’t need to say a word to use his abilities. They just flow from him without effort.

Stoker and his cronies immediately try to run. They see Baz in his new form, larger, more terrifying than anything they’ve ever witnessed. The blonde one turns to look, and his eyes melt from his skull, running down his face like milky tears. Baz rips the scream from his throat and crushes his ribcage.

The one with blue hair trips, and Baz sets them on fire where they lay.

Baz recognizes Silas from Cecil’s memories. He turns the man’s legs to salt, and Silas crumbles, wailing. Baz grabs his head, his hand large enough to cover him from scalp to throat, and pops the skull like a grape.

Stoker is almost to the door by now, but Baz closes the air around him, binding his arms and legs, forcing him face down onto the ground. He flips Stoker over and stares him in the eyes as he pulls the man’s blood out of his body through the pores of his skin.

The pink-bearded demon at the door outside comes running in at the sound of screams. He sees the carnage before he notices Baz, pulls a gun from his shoulder holster. But even if he managed to get off a shot, it would have been for nothing.

Baz simply crushes him. The bastard doesn’t even see it coming.

Baz’s anger is all-encompassing. He sees, superimposed over everything, the pain these animals inflicted on his only friend in the world. The suffering they brought to the one he loves. The only person who has ever tried to save him from anything. The only one to ever break his loneliness.

He moves through the warehouse like a reckoning, turning each demon and every human into a puddle of flesh, bone, muscle and blood.

It takes less than a minute. It’s over sooner than he’d hoped.

He runs back to the room where he started. Cecil sleeps, but he’s moaning softly every few seconds, his eyes darting back and forth under his heavy eyelids, lost in a nightmare, followed by pain.

Baz breaks the chains, puts his hand against Cecil’s forehead and feels the heat of a stress-induced fever. He looks over his friend and feels a knot in his chest, his anger not subsiding. With all his power, all he can do is destroy. He can’t heal.

Baz carefully, gently scoops Cecil into his arms, and his head lolls against Baz’s chest. He feels so light, so fragile. Maybe it’s because Baz is stronger now. Or maybe it’s because they took something from him here.

Just before he carries Cecil through the unnatural dimensional tunnel, Baz turns and looks at the warehouse and burns it to the ground.

Cecil tries to pull the nasal cannula off his face the second he wakes up in the hospital bed, but his right hand is mummified in gauze and splinted past the wrist. His left arm is immobilized in fiberglass. He feels the soft tightness of elastic bandages around his ribcage, a dull throbbing ache in his stomach where staples hold the skin together and internal stitching has repaired the muscle and fascia, the distant pain of the deep burn on the sole of his foot. But it’s all mercifully masked by drugs.

And a heavy but gentle hand presses against his right shoulder. The touch is familiar and comforting.

_ Baz? _

He opens his eyes halfway, and sees his friend sitting beside his bed. Cecil sees his human form first, and it looks  _ roughly _ the same, but it’s… bigger. Muscles are more filled out. His jaw is stronger, his shoulders wider. He’s  _ taller _ for fuck’s sake.

And when Cecil sees his demon form, he’s awe-struck. Baz’s skin has gone from yellow to a polished, metallic gold. His eyes are a clear, penetrating ruby red. Chrome spikes adorn his collar bones, his cheekbones, his brow. He’s absolutely stunning.

Cecil remembers now. Remembers what happened. Remembers who Baz is.

_ Baz’Tirihl.  _ He tries to say it aloud, but all that comes out is a soft, strangled cough. His throat feels like it’s full of broken glass.

_ Just “Baz” is fine,Cee.  _ Baz’s voice is in his head. It confuses him. They can’t talk like this unless they share a body. And yet here they are. _ Don’t try to talk out loud. Your vocal cords are damaged. _

Cecil tries to take a deep breath, but between his broken nose and cracked ribs, he gives up immediately, and just lets the supplemental oxygen do its job.

_ You look fucking amazing. How did you… _

_ You summoned me by my real name, reminded me who I was. _

_ How? I was under a silence spell. And I’m like, the least talented mage in the tri state area. _

_ You’re more powerful than we thought. You’ve got moxie, kid. _

Cee smiles at that, but the grin fades quickly.  _ How did I summon you in the first place? I mean, when we first met? I fucked up the spell so badly I used the wrong name. How does that work? _

Baz shrugs.  _ This ain’t science. I don’t know how it worked. But I do think you and I have a relationship that’s very different from other summoners and their demons. You never acted like you owned me. You never wanted to. _

_ Seems a little saccharin,  _ Cecil says cynically, and Baz smiles. Cecil goes on,  _ I guess you’ll be heading off soon, back to the Underworld. Now that you know who you are. _

_ I’m gonna stick around. _

_ What? You could be a king down there. _

_ Sure. And lonely as fuck. _

_ But why would you want to stay here? You could go anywhere, have anything. _

_ Except you. I’m not leaving you. I’m in love with you, you idiot. _

Cecil blinks.  _ You’re... _ what?

_ I’m in love with you. And, if you’ll excuse my boldness, I think the feeling is mutual. _

Cecil isn’t sure what to do. He feels prickly and warm, a knot in his throat, his eyes welling up, a smile spreading across his lips without his permission.

_ We’re basically gods, Cee. Why should we tiptoe around something as simple as love? Think of us together. How unstoppable we’ll be. The things we can learn together, the good we could do. You think Stoker is the last of his kind? There are thousands more just like him. And none of them are a match for us. We can use our love as a weapon. _

Cecil laughs silently, little tears poking their way out of the corners of his eyes.  _ That’s so fucking corny, Baz.  _

_ Call me sentimental. But I just anihilated an entire building of people with my mind, so I think I balance it out by being a hardcore badass. _

_ I do fucking love you,  _ Cecil says.  _ Seems stupid we never talked about until now. _

Baz gently runs his fingers through Cecil’s shaggy black hair, draws his thumb tenderly over his brow. Cecil closes his eyes tenderly and smiles. Baz replies,  _ Well, a good old fashioned ritual sacrifice and mass smiting can really remind you what’s important in life. _


	10. Desert Shade, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober, Day 10
> 
> Prompts:  
> Alt. 2 (falling)  
> Alt. 13 (accidents)  
> No. 30 “Now Where Did That Come From” (internal organ injury)  
> No. 20 “Toto, I Have a Feeling We’re Not in Kansas Anymore” (lost)
> 
> John survived the fall, but he won’t survive the sunrise.
> 
> Trigger/Content warnings: graphic description of injury, broken bones, blood, organ injury, animal death

The drop is about six hundred feet straight down onto a white expanse of shale. Likely to be deadly for any human, but John is not human. Even so, he knows as he’s falling that it’s not going to be good.

Tangled up with the horse, his feet in the saddle, various sundries slung across his back and waist, he can’t maneuver as he normally would in such situations. The animal is going wild, kicking and thrashing, further eliminating John’s hopes of righting himself. He and the horse hit the ground on their side, cratering the dry desert ground.

Even John’s iron-strength skeleton can’t weather that force. His pelvis and leg shatter on impact, as does his shoulder, arm, and four of his ribs. His kidney ruptures. Between the height of the drop, the fact that he hasn’t had a drop of human blood in well over a week, and the accelerated, gravity-driven weight of the god damn animal coming down on top of him, his body just ain’t as resilient as it can be.

The horse is in far worse shape than he is, as it practically explodes after doing its damnedest to kill him.

He cries out as he tries to move. He may be supernaturally strong, but pain is pain, and this is unendurable.

John has been shot, stabbed, and hung twice, but shattered bones are his least favorite so far. Busted organs aren’t much better either. His increased awareness and heightened senses allow him to picture, down to the smallest granularity, what is happening inside his body.

He feels the pulverized pieces of his bones floating around in his injured limbs, his muscles spasming and contracting around the empty space left behind. He feels the leak of fluids and blood from his burst viscera.

As he tries to drag himself out from under the horse, one of his ribs punctures his lung, and he feels the sudden press of imminent suffocation, the bubble of his own inky black blood as it rises in his throat.

Michael calls to him from the edge of the cliff, his distant voice echoing incoherently off the canyon walls, but John can’t answer. He tries to move his good arm to show that he’s alive, but he can’t lift it far without jarring his broken ribs and risking further internal injury.

He sucks in breath with a high pitched wheeze, each inhale a desperate struggle, each exhale hitched and ragged. He doesn’t know how long he lies there, or how long it takes Michael to find a way down.

But the hoofbeats finally approach him, stopping inches short, kicking up dust that stings his watering eyes.

Michael falls on his knees beside him, removing his wide-brimmed leather hat. John looks up at him with wild, panicked eyes, his sclera turning black as he begins to retreat into his demonic form.

Wasting no time, Michael holds up his hand, concentrating hard to shapeshift only that part of his body. The fingers elongate and come to a point in razor-sharp black claws. He uses his index finger and presses it down firmly into John’s chest, breaking through the skin and into the chest cavity.

John feels the pressure release, his lungs start to inflate. His breath returns, but it’s still ragged and irregular, hitching and catching as he struggles against the pain.

It’s obvious to Michael, just by looking, which parts of John’s body have been injured in the fall. His beast-like senses allow him to smell the blood pooling inside, under the skin, hear the scrape of misplaced bones as John breathes. He can smell the ammonia-like tang of John’s injured kidney. 

He reaches his claws down into the massacred horse and comes back out with its heart, which he holds to John’s trembling lips. John shakes his head gently, but Michael presses it further into his mouth, giving him no choice but to swallow.

John drinks the medicine dutifully, and when the organ is squeezed dry, he appears to be in a bit less pain. However, Michael notices that the vampire's limbs are still twisted and misshapen, his hip still off center and sunken. He looks at John, surprised. Blood is supposed to heal him.

“I need… human…” John gasps, answering the question in his eyes.

Michael smooths back John’s dirty blonde hair, because he’s not sure what else to do. They’re in the middle of nowhere. They haven’t seen a town or settlement in days. They’re lost, and they’ve got about a half an hour before sunrise.

As a vampire, John can live for several nights in this dire state before succumbing, but morning is coming, and if the sun catches his friend in this state, Michael will be riding alone again. He can survive crushed bones and perforated organs, but all it takes to kill him is one sunrise.

“I thought…”

“Animal’s okay for survivin’, ain’t… for healin’,” his voice is soft, using the least amount of air possible. If he wasn’t superhuman, he wouldn’t be having this conversation. He’d be dead by now. He almost wishes he was.

“Can I give you mine?” Michael asks. He’s new to vampires, doesn’t know their needs precisely, is still learning. They haven’t been riding together long, but he already can’t imagine his life without him.

John shakes his head. Michael’s hand feels good in his hair, comforting and almost distracting him from the state of things. “Monsters can’t… feed...on each other. Poison.”

Michael furrows his brow.

“Got to get to shade,” John breathes.

“I can cover you with my duster, right here. We’ll wait here until nightfall, then I’ll go looking for people.”

“Won’t work,” John says. “Too weak. Heat alone will kill me. Gotta ride. That mesa... outcropping ‘bout ten miles back.”

Michael groans, knowing what that sort of travel would mean for his friend. “Darlin’,” he says, laying a hand against John’s cheek. “I don’t think we ought to move you just now.”

John swallows and manages a full, unbroken sentence. “Broken bones ain’t gonna mean a damn thing if I go up in flames, Michael.” 

Michael bites his lip. Ten miles is a long way to ride in 30 minutes, especially with a body that’s in pieces. This will be torture.

“Got to go… Ain’t nothin’ for it.” John grunts.

“It’s gonna hurt real bad,” Michael says. “Real bad. We’re gonna have to ride hard and fast.”

“Don’t… worry, love,” John replies, “I don’t plan on staying… conscious. Hope you’ll... forgive me for what my ...nature makes me do... in the meantime.”

Michael reluctantly scoops John up into his arms, feeling the grating of bones under the skin.

John roars, his face contorting into the demonic, his fangs bared, and he instinctively claws at Michael’s face, tearing four deep gashes across the werewolf’s face. Michael barely flinches, stays the course, resolute in the task of helping his friend. He lays John across the front of the saddle on his stomach, and then climbs up after him.

John screams, his voice turning from human to animal, to a multi-tonal abyssal growl, and then, as promised, he goes limp, his consciousness mercifully leaving him.


	11. Desert Shade, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober, Day 11
> 
> Prompts:  
> No.10 “They Look So Pretty When They Bleed” (internal bleeding)  
> No.14 “Is Something Burning?” (heat exhaustion)  
> No.22 “Do These Tacos Taste Funny to You?” (withdrawal)  
> No.27 “OK, Who Had Natural Disasters…” (extreme weather)  
> No.11 “Psych 101” (crying)
> 
> Michael has to make a choice that will cause him great pain, or risk losing John forever.
> 
> Trigger/Content warnings: gore, body horror, blood, drug references, broken bones, graphic description of injuries, addiction, animal death, internal organ injury, illness, viscera, tendons, ligaments

The wretched, evil sun is clawing its way up into the cool, purple sky, chasing away the stars and the sympathetic moon. The first hints of light begin to crest up over the mesa just as the alcove comes into sight.

Michael yanks up violently on the reins, the horse’s hooves sliding over the finely ground desert sand, stopping as close to the shade as he possibly can. He pulls John from the saddle like a sack of potatoes, not even bothering to be gentle.

Even the faintest morning light causes John’s exposed skin to start smoking like a half-used cigarette.

Michael slips around the rocky outcropping and into the cool darkness of the small cave, sliding on his knees, escaping the fiery rays in the nick of time.

Now that John is safe from certain combustion, Michael can be more careful with him. He gently moves John as far back into the rock as he can. He grabs a saddlebag and places it under the vampire’s head, and very carefully removes his boots, doing his best not to disturb his broken leg too much.

Michael didn't think it was possible for John to be any paler, but he was wrong.

John moans pitifully, then coughs. He whispers. "Blood."

Michael squats beside him. There's barely room in there for both of them. John is drenched in sweat, looks like he's just been pulled from the ocean. He paws weakly at his collar, panting like a dog. "Don't leave, Michael."

"I'm gonna go get ya someone ta eat, darlin','' Michael promises, unbuttoning John's shirt and opening it up to give him some relief from the desert heat. The sun is barely clear of the horizon and already it's hotter than hell. 

John's rib cage is purple, red, green and blue. The flesh around his ruptured kidney is black and looks like it's decaying. The faint scent of imminent rot fills Michael's nose.

Michael takes a chance and pulls back John's lips, checks his gums. The fangs are still extended, the flesh around them dry and receding.

The vampire's normally ice cold skin is burning, even in the shade. The heat outside is climbing by the minute, and it seems that his system can't regulate itself in these conditions.

This is far worse than it should be. Under normal circumstances, John would be getting better, not worse.

"John," Michael says hesitantly, "when was the last time you had human blood?"

"Silverton," he croaks, his eyes closed.

"For chrissakes, John, that was twelve days ago. What were you thinking, going this long?"

John doesn't answer. He's shaking now, a light, constant tremor that Michael hasn't seen before.

"Don't go. Won't make it." John says distantly, almost to himself.

"Course I'll make it. Can't take more'n a day."

"I won't. Make it. Need blood now."

Michael knows John might be right, but he has to try.

"Ain't no one around, John, no one but us chickens." Michael looks at John sadly. He isn't sure what he'll come back to if he goes. "I won't be but a minute."

Michael isn’t sure when the change comes upon John, but it’s fast, and horrifying. John’s features return to their demonic state, and he clutches at his chest as if it’s about to burst. 

John’s face sinks in to reveal every curvature of his skull, the outline of his teeth. His skin is a slate gray, every vein and artery fully visible. His eyes are twice their normal size, blacker than ink from corner to corner, with no reflection of light. They seem to pull the luminance from the air around them, like tunnels into a darkness unknown on earth.

Despite his shattered bones, he lunges forward, his broken limbs dragging behind him, pulled on his tendons and ligaments as if he were a marionette. His hand, skeletal and clawlike, grabs for Michael’s throat, and Michael jumps back deftly on his heels.

A pained growl issues from John’s throat, a scream that bemoans agony and desire, a compulsion, a hunger so deep and so feral that Michael can almost feel it himself. John’s mouth opens and closes, hissing, as he tries to bite him, to drink deep from his veins.

And as quickly as it started, it all fades. John looks human again, falls on his back, moaning, writhing. He turns to his side and chokes, vomiting up the horse’s blood he drank less than an hour ago. He sobs, shaking, his eyes squeezed shut, too dry for tears to form. “Please,” he moans. “Please. Please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Take away the visage of the demon, and Michael has seen something like this before, from back when he was human. It’s more active, more dynamic than hunger. Withdrawal, primal and painful.

John can’t go on like this.

Michael gently squeezes John’s frail hand, then slips away, mounting the horse outside and riding out as fast as he can.

Michael makes it three hours before the horse slows down, drags its feet, and finally collapses to its knees. The heat is record-breaking, as far as Michael can tell, and he’s been a nomad in this wasteland for quite some time.

He salvages what he can from the supplies. He’s nearly out of water, which is alarming, because even though John doesn’t need it, Michael does. Like John, he’s more sturdy than humans, can go longer and further wounded or malnourished, but he can’t go on forever without water.

The choice is uncertain. He can try to turn around now, or he can keep going, maybe find a town, steal a horse, and ride back to John through the night. He can go farther faster if he shifts, but he runs hot as a wolf, and he’s not sure he’ll make it in this weather.

But he knows if he goes back now, with no blood, John won’t make it another two days.

Sunlight beats down on him like a hammer, blistering and brutal as he removes his clothes. His brown skin prickles with the impending sunburn. He takes a deep breath, and begins the change.

It hurts every time, as much as it did the first time, which is why he normally only does it when he has no choice— the three nights a month when the moon is full.

He considers this a case of “no choice.”

He’s not sure what the worst part is. The skin stretching, expanding, tearing? Sloughing off of his straining muscles like wet paper, exposing him to the elements?

Or is it the rapid elongating and thickening of his bones, the directional change of his joints, the popping and squeezing of cartilage? The shifting of organs, the regrowth of tough, fur-covered skin? The razors of sharp, pointed teeth stabbing through his gums, replacing his flat molars like tree roots growing through the foundations of old buildings?

The noises from his stretching vocal cords sound like something from a different world, something straight out of hell.

The only mercy is that it’s fairly quick.

In wolf form, Michael’s senses are even more heightened than they are when he’s in human form. He smells a man, a horse, and a mass of cows about thirty miles off, a distance he may be able to make in an hour, if he can withstand heat exhaustion.

His bare hands and feet, huge and grotesque, burn on the sand as he moves on at a breakneck speed. He can’t sweat in this form, so he pants, feels his mouth drying out, his eyes getting scratchy as he uses the last of his body’s water reserves. He has to reach the human, but he has no idea what he’ll do once he does. There’s no way he’ll make it back to John tonight.

He’s slowing, his lungs aching, his vision wavering and twitching. Dark clouds come into the edges of what he can see, the swirling blindness of unconsciousness threatening him with every step.

_ My brain is boiling, _ he thinks, wondering how he can think at all. He feels his organs growing, pushing against each other like people in a crowded room. He can’t take much more.

He’s so close. The scent is strong now, and the thought of rending and devouring the man’s flesh is as powerful as the need for water.

Michael sees him now, a lone cowboy on a freckled white horse, a sea of cattle around him. The vision is burned into Michael’s retinas as he collapses, his empty stomach turning over and heaving dryly. His body finally gives out, shrinking, shifting, becoming human once again.


	12. Desert Shade, Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober, Day 12
> 
> Prompts:  
> No.16 “A Terrible, Horrible, No Good…” (hallucinations)  
> No.15 “Into the Unknown” (magical healing)  
> No.19 “Broken Hearts” (survivor’s guilt)  
> No.28 “Such Wow. Many Normal. Very Oops” (hunting season)
> 
> John's luck is too good to be true.
> 
> Trigger/Content warnings: gore, blood, body horror, broken bones, guns, graphic description of injury, illness, nausea

It is possible for a vampire to go insane. And John can feel himself slipping.

The thought seems silly. How could one slip, one mistake, one stupid accident result in the loss of a hundred years of conscious thought and dash the hopes of having a thousand more? It has been so long since he’s felt this human.

In his moments of lucid thought, he curses himself for being so irresponsible. He had so many chances in the past two weeks to feed, and he didn’t take them. Lying here now, hearing the dry, labored, irregular beat of his undead heart, he can’t remember why. But the decision is about to cost him his life.

His stomach spasms and he gags, his bony fingers grasping at his own skin. He can feel the organ eating itself, the velvet lining deteriorating with the rest of his body. His blood feels like thick sludge in his veins, and the black liquid runs from his nose and eyes.

He turns onto his good side, curling into a fetal position, trying to press his cheek against the cool stone of the cave’s floor. He’s burning up with fever, his head throbbing.

_Or maybe he’s just warm from the campfire in front of him. The cave has grown, stretched… the mouth of it at least fifty feet away from him. The fire crackles gently. Sitting beside it, legs folded neatly in front of him, is Michael._

_Michael smiles warmly at him._

_“Michael?” he says weakly. “When did you get back?”_

_The werewolf doesn’t answer, just stokes the fire a bit more, looks away. The smell of the smoke is intoxicating. Michael is cooking something, and John can sense the rich, beautiful flow of human blood._

_“Why won’t you answer me?”_

_“I'm in trouble bad, John.”_

_“What kind of trouble, Michael?”_

John can barely move, and when he does, it hurts him to the core. But he can’t resist, and reaches for Michael.

His hand moves straight through the illusion, into the fire, and with a yelp, he’s startled back to reality.

There is no campfire. The cave is as shallow as it’s always been, and Michael is still gone. He has reached out of the cave, through a nest of tumbleweed and various scraggly desert brush that Michael must have laid over the entry. John’s hand has strayed into the fading evening sunlight and caught fire. He pulls it back to himself, smothering it under his body, hissing and yowling like a cornered cat.

“Y’hear that?” says a voice, not far away. He can’t tell which direction it comes from, and his immediate thought is that it is another fever-induced hallucination. 

But after a moment, he knows it's real.

There is a group of three humans approaching the cave from just around the other side of the mesa.

“Coulda’ been one of ‘em,” the voice says, and John hears a gun being drawn.

“Calm down now, Zeke,” says another voice. John senses three men and three horses, and all six bodies are healthy, young, and strong. The men smell of gunpowder, dust, and tobacco. “Be a goddamn professional.”

Zeke coughs. “Look, now. I jus’ ain’ tryin’ to get kilt by no monster today, Walt.”

“Thought you’d done this before is all,” Walt replies, clearly aiming to get a rise out of his companion.

“Will botha’ you just shut up for one goddamn minnit? We got a job to do.”

“Sorry, Samuel,” Zeke says. “I just ain’t never actually seen a werewolf.”

_Hunters. Fucking hunter scum._ But John's need— the pain of his hunger— outweighs his fear of being killed by these travelers. John’s mouth would be watering if he had any moisture left in him. He can’t contain a low, mournful whine, his body screaming for sustenance.

“There!” Zeke exclaims, and by this time their horses have rounded the corner, come in view of the cave. “I _tole_ you I heard somethin’.”

They stop their horses, and John hears the jingle of spurs and the creak of saddles as they dismount, and the other two draw their guns.

John panics. He can’t take all of them at once. Time to play the innocent human card. “Help! Please help me!”

He hears them hesitate, but they don’t answer, and they don’t make a move.

Thinking quickly, John adds, “I been hidin’ from that… that thing. Been holed up in here for days.”

“Go check it out,” Walt says to Zeke.

Zeke gets off his horse hesitantly and approaches the mouth of the cave slowly. “I got my gun on ya, mister, so don’t try nothin.”

“I won’t,” John rasps. He coughs. “I ain’t got the strength anyway. Please help me."

Zeke leans over, moves aside the dry brush. He keeps his gun trained on John, but has to lean into the cave to see, as his eyes can't quite adjust to the dark.

John strikes like a rattler, grabs Zeke’s wrist and pulls it to his lips, a preternatural strength pushing itself up out of the depths of his reserves. His teeth rend the paper-thin skin and go straight to the artery.

It’s a half-second, not long enough for Zeke to even scream, but it’s all John needs. The salty sweetness of the blood floods John’s mouth and pours down his throat. His taste buds ache with the satisfaction of it, his brain bathed in pure ecstasy. The euphoria is incomparable, and the man tastes better than any meal John’s ever had.

The pleasure of the act is offset by the agonizing work the rest of his body has to do to heal. His bones grind past each other as they try to knit themselves together, his blood courses more quickly through his veins, bringing sensation to the parts of his physiology that had started to die and rot, sleeping limbs feeling the fire of returned sensation.

Once he’s able to move his broken arm enough to grab Zeke by the head, he pulls the man’s jugular close enough to drink. A gurgling moan rumbles in John’s chest, an expression of the odd combination of pain and pleasure.

He’s fast enough to do it before the others realize what’s happening, and he’s gotten enough sustenance to allow him to sit up by the time they see.

They unleash a hail of bullets, and most of them lodge themselves in Zeke’s lifeless body, which John uses as a shield. The rest ricochet or bury themselves in the rock. Only one strikes John, in his injured shoulder. The bones are not yet fully healed, further testament to how deprived John’s been of human blood. He stifles his cry, letting Zeke’s corpse fall on top of him. He plays dead.

“Did we get ‘im?” Walt asks, his once-confident voice now shaky.

Samuel doesn’t answer. John can hear his footsteps getting closer, inching toward him cautiously, pebbles of sand popping underneath his boots.

But John’s not afraid. He may still be wounded, but he can almost stand. And the sun has fallen behind the mesa, shading the mouth of the cave. By the time Samuel’s hand pulls Zeke’s body away, John’s ready.

The gun goes off, catching John right in the gut, exiting just shy of his spine. John grabs his prey by the hair, showing the man his true face before ripping off his jaw. John opens his mouth wide, letting the blood spray onto his tongue like a gentle rain. Samuel’s strangled scream is enough to send Walt running back to his horse, but John is on top of him by the time Walt grabs the horn of the saddle.

John’s movements are still painful, but he feels so much better that it almost doesn’t slow him down at all. He hauls Walt down, throws him in the dirt and kicks him in the stomach

The man is blubbering, crying, shaking. He coughs up blood.

John grabs him by the collar and lifts him, forcing Walt to look at his infernal aspect, his black eyes and shining, white fangs, his gore-covered face and chest. There's bits and pieces of Zeke and Samuel stuck to John's bare chest and open shirt. A tooth here, a clump of scalp and hair there. “Who are you, and how did you find me?”

“We… we was huntin’... lookin’ for the pack!”

“What pack? The hell you talkin’ about?”

There appears to be mutual confusion. “The pack,” Walt repeats. “His pack?”

“Elaborate,” John hisses through his teeth.

“We… they caught a werewolf… over. Over at the Johnson ranch… he. We. His tracks led us back here. Thought we'd find his pack.”

John’s heart drops. “What did you do to him.”

Walt sees the bullet hole in John’s stomach, intestines peeking out like white snakes. He sees the thick, oil-like substance pouring out of the wound. He hesitates. “What are you, mister? You ain’t no ‘wolf. Them’re silver bullets and you’re gutshot…”

“I’m the fucking devil, boy. And you best answer me right now.”

Walt chokes on his tears, which increase in intensity at John’s declaration. “I… I don’t know, sir, I don’t know! I imagine… I imagine they killed him.”

John thinks he might be sick. He stares at Walt, and as he does so, he feels his blood boiling, not from any fever, but from pure, unadulterated rage.

No. He won’t accept it. He can’t. 

He’s surprised to find that his sadness and anger isn't really so much about him and his own loneliness. He just can’t bear the thought of Michael suffering. It’s odd, after so many years, to care about someone in that way.

“Tell me where the ranch is. Tell me how to get there.”

Walt didn’t taste nearly as good as the other two. The joy of feeding was gone by the time he ate him. The fact that even after three humans he is still not fully healed worries John, but does not deter him from climbing into the saddle and sitting up resolutely on his aching bones.

Michael is alive, he decides. He’s out there somewhere, captive, and he needs him. He won’t accept another reality. If he lets himself believe for one moment that Michael died out there, scared and surrounded by cruel, filthy, evil humans, he has to accept that he’s to blame.

It’s his fault that he didn’t see the drop off, that they were still riding so close to dawn. His fault for begging Michael to get him human blood. His fault that he hadn’t been feeding as much as he should have.

His fault he's alone again.

Here he is, almost good as new, and Michael's out there suffering because of John's foolishness. The madness of John's hunger steered his only friend to doom. If he'd had his head on straight, he could have just walked into the sunrise and saved Michael's life. If Michael’s gone, he’ll never forgive himself.


	13. Desert Shade, Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober, Day 13
> 
> Prompts:  
> No.11 “Psych 101” (defiance)  
> No. 13 “Breathe in Breathe Out” (theme inspired)  
> No.31 “Today’s Special: Torture” (whipped)  
> Alt.12 (water)  
> No.7 “I’ve Got You” (enemy to caretaker)  
> Alt.5 (stoic whumpee)
> 
> While trying to help John, Michael finds himself in need of rescue.
> 
> Trigger/Content warnings: blood, gore, torture, negative depiction of religion, non-graphic nudity

Michael’s consciousness creeps back slowly. He’s bound hand and foot, slung over the back of a slow, docile cow like a bag of grain. He’s been covered from the sun with a saddle blanket, but he’s naked underneath. Clothes don’t shapeshift, and his must still be out there in the middle of the desert where he left them.

He mumbles nonsense at first, trying to find his voice through a throat that is dryer than the sand he crossed to get here. “..'llo… Hullo?” he manages. His voice is scratchy and soft, and he wonders if the man riding in front of him can even hear it.

“It can talk,” the man says coolly, not turning around. His horse keeps pace, leading the cow and its compatriots along easily.

“Name’s Michael.”

The man shakes his head. “Can’t be. That’s a Christian name. You’re a hound of hell.”

Michael remembers approaching the lone man on the horse, the herd of cattle. Coming upon them as a beast, ready to strike them all down. Only reason he didn’t is that he was thwarted by the heat. He can’t blame the man for bein’ sore about it, but the holier-than-thou sentiment irks him.

This man has killed. Not just “monsters.” He has killed other men just for fun, just because he could. Michael can smell it on him. It changes humans in subtle ways, and he can sense it. How dare he judge Michael just for trying to survive.

“I’m just a man, sir,” Michael says. It’s partially true.

The man doesn’t respond this time, just stays the course. Michael smells other humans, not far off, and the warm, inviting scent of a hearth, the pine smell of a wooden structure. They must be just about home.

“‘Less you’re fixin’ ta kill me, I need water,” Michael says, trying not to sound too desperate. “And, seein’ as you  _ ain’t _ kilt me yet, I’m thinkin’ you want me alive.”

The man stops a few feet short of the homestead, yanks Michael down from the horse roughly, letting him hit the dirt hard on his face. He grabs Michael by the rope around his wrists and drags him over to the cattle trough.

Michael wants water so badly that he barely fights him. The man shoves Michael’s head into the brackish, sun-heated water and holds it under. Michael sucks in the water greedily, ignoring the taste of debris, the saliva and scum from the animals that have been drinking from it all day. It’s sour and old, and he gags.

The man holds him under forcefully, longer than he should. A minute ticks by. Two. Three. Normally Michael could push the man off of him, even with his hands tied, but he’s weakened, his body exhausted from heat stroke and shape shifting.

His lungs suddenly expand on their own, and water rushes in, down the wrong pipe. He thrashes, and the man pulls him back up, drops him back on the ground. Michael chokes, sputters. He vomits some of what he drank, and the man punches him in the diaphragm, forcing more of the inhaled water out.

“Better? Get enough? Or are ya still thirsty?”

Michael coughs wetly, his breath still rattling. He shakes his head, his long wet hair shaking off droplets of water and muddy sand. “I’m good. I’m good.”

The man drags him along the ground, past the house. A woman steps out onto the creaky wooden porch, looking for the source of the commotion.

“Is that it?" She asks, incredulous. "He's just… Thomas, look at 'im… my word. He's just a  _ man _ ."

“Ain't nothin'a the sort, Liza."

She keeps staring at Michael as she talks. "The men are out in the barn waitin' for ya." She starts to step off the porch

“Go back inside!” Thomas warns, holding up a hand. “He’s a killer!”

She obeys, never taking her eyes off of Michael’s face, backs into the house, shuts the door.

“You’re a killer too, and so's the woman.” Michael says. “At least twice over… maybe more. You’re an old hand at it, ain’t ya?”

The man stops dragging for a moment to kick Michael viciously in the ribs. His body can take it, he's built tough like John. Takes a lot to break his bones.

When they start moving again, Thomas says, “I seen onea’ you before. When I was a boy." 

Michael senses fear on him, but also glee, excitement, satisfaction. 

Thomas goes on. "It stole a woman away from the wagons. I'll never forget her screams as it dragged her off into the dark.

We found her, next day. Just half her head and some of her guts were left. Blood everywhere. It was true. What my granddad always told me was true. Monsters are real.

But you ain’t invincible. Was easy enough to find out what hurts ya, what kills ya. How you're a slave to the moon. I been waitin’ for this moment. Found other believers. Others like me, what know the truth. Some of ‘em even kilt a couple’a you before.

And now I’ve got you.”

There are six other men waiting in the barn when they get there, each of them armed with silver in one form or another: silver bullets in their guns, silver knives in their hands. They’ve wrapped chains and manacles around a load bearing post, which is moored securely in the foundation. The iron is gilded in an onion-skin layer of silver. He’s never seen anything like this. Never met humans so prepared. This must have cost them a fortune, the sacrifice of all their family heirlooms.

None of them speak as they force him face first against the post and close the shackles around his wrists and ankles. The metal immediately raises blistered welts on his skin. He feels vulnerable for the first time in a long while. Humiliated, chained, and naked.

Worst of all, he can’t help but picture John out there alone, shivering, sick, in excruciating pain. And he can’t save him now.

“I was born of a woman, just like you,” Michael says, looking at their stone-set faces over his shoulder. “I got a soul, just like you. I wanna survive. Just like you.”

One of the men snorts. “You ain’t  _ nothin’ _ like us.” He walks over to a post, pulls down a coiled bullwhip. The tip catches the sunlight and sparkles. Silver barbs hang from the tasseled tip.

Michael tenses.

“Tell us where the resta you are,” a man says. “And we’ll kill ya quick.”

Michael’s brow furrows in confusion.  _ How can they know about John? _ “Can’t say as I know what the hell you’re on about.”

The whip cracks a jagged line from his right shoulder blade to the top of his left hip. It’s quicker than he anticipated, so he can’t help but cry out. He tells himself it’s the last time he’ll let them see his pain.

“Your pack, you mongrel. Where’s the resta’ you fleabitten demons?”

Michael almost laughs, but thinks better of it. For all their supposed knowledge, all their preparation, they actually don’t know as much as they think they do. It all boils down to silver, the moon, and half-understood animal husbandry.

“Ain’t got a pack,” Michael says. “Ain’t how it works.”

He’s ready for the next strike, which comes in an opposite diagonal across the first wound, forming an X. He clenches his jaw, swallows his scream, remains silent. The wounds are both burns and lacerations, and he knows it’ll be a struggle to keep from calling out again.

“You’re a wolf. Y’all travel in packs.”

Michael takes a shuddering breath, knowing that whatever answer he gives, he’s in for more pain. “I’m not a  _ wolf… _ I just… My kind, We got some commonalities with the animals, but we ain’t the same.”

The whip crack makes his ears ring. He nearly falls to his knees, and his eyes watering, but he stays standing and doesn’t make a sound. He can feel rivulets of blood running over his skin, down the backs of his legs.

“Tell us where they are.”

Michael hisses through his teeth. “If y’ain't gonna believe me, just kill me.”

He’s surprised when they don’t respond with another strike.

“Walt, Zeke, Samuel,” Thomas says, “y’all ride out, backtrack his path. See if you can’t find ‘em that way. Matthew, Henry and I will stay here, see if we can’t work him a bit more. Might be more use to us alive a bit longer. Got some people I want to introduce him to.”

“Why do I gotta ride out with Walt and Samuel?” Zeke whines. “Why can’t I be the one stays here.”

“Cuz you’re the best tracker here, Zeke. Don’t be a coward,” Samuel answers.

Thomas goes on, ignoring Zeke’s insolence. “Paul, you ride over to West Springs and fetch the sheriff and a posse. Tell ‘em we caught a rustler, to make sure they’ll come. I want him to see this. I want everyone to see this."

"See what, Tom? A buck nekkid stranger tied up in yer barn?" There goes Zeke, ever the pot stirrer. “This is crazy! He ain’t even changin’ like you said he would. He’s just… sittin’ there, takin’ a lashin’. How’re we supposed to know if he even is onea’ those things?”

Thomas sneers at him. He slaps open the cylinder of his revolver, shakes the silver bullets out into his palm. He takes a regular brass-and-lead slug from his pocket and loads it. He takes aim at Michael’s spine and pulls the trigger.

The bullet hits its target, shattering bone, ripping through flesh, and bursting out the other side, through Michael’s sternum. But almost as soon as the wound is made, it starts to pull itself back together.

Michael grimaces as his body does the quick but painful work of repairing itself.

Zeke is dumbstruck.

Michael can tell that Thomas is a bit surprised himself, as if he had been taking a gamble, not sure the demonstration would work. All the same, the point is indeed proven. “Only thing that can kill ‘em is silver. They can be hurt, roughed up, slowed down some, but they can only be truly wounded by silver.”

Again, not entirely true. There’s more than one way to skin a cat. Or a werewolf, for that matter. But they don’t need to know that.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Zeke admits. Only Samuel and Mathew seem unphased. They’ve obviously seen this before.

“Let’s ride out, boys,” Samuel says with confidence. “We got some rabid dogs to put down.”

Michael suddenly panics. If they retrace his path, they’ll find John. And John’s too weak to fight.

“Wait!” he says desperately. “I’ll show ya where the pack is.”

Matthew laughs. “Ah, now here we go!” He slaps Thomas’s shoulder. “Looks like we’re on the right path here.”

“No,” Michael says, trying to sound as convincing as possible. “No, you ain’t. They ain’t the way I came. They’re North’a here. Other side of the stones. I just… I jus’ don’ wanna get whipped no more.”

“Ha, no. We’ll be workin’ our way back on your trail. You know we’re gonna get yer friends and yer panickin’. Boys, get on out there. We’ll make an orphan of this devil yet.”

Michael strains against his bonds, trying in vain to pull himself free. If he could shift, he’d turn into the monster he is and he’d devour them all from the feet up. But the silver holds him to this form, and the whip comes down again and again, rending the flesh from his bones.


	14. Desert Shade, Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober, Day 14
> 
> Prompts:  
> No.17 “I Did Not See That Coming” (dirty secret)  
> No.19 “Broken Hearts” (mourning a loved one)  
> No.21 “I Don’t Feel So Well” (chronic pain)
> 
> John’s past chases him as he races to save Michael.
> 
> Trigger/Content warnings: blood, broken bones, gunshot wound, body horror (light), burns

John’s pace slows sooner than he had hoped. The lingering, gnawing burn in his bones won’t let him go, even though they’ve pulled themselves together with the nourishment of blood from three full grown men. And though the bullet wound in his gut has healed, he feels a soreness in his core, a fatigue in his muscles. He feels almost as weak as a human

No matter how much he wants to spur the horse to a breakneck speed, he just can’t. His body won’t do it.

He hasn’t experienced prolonged pain like this since before he was turned, and it doesn’t seem right. Not that he knows exactly what’s considered “right” for a body like his. Caterina didn’t teach him everything.

He wasn’t anything special when she turned him, so long ago now. Just another pair of hands at a sugar factory.

If she hadn’t been what she was, if she hadn’t met her sire those centuries ago in Italy, she probably wouldn’t have been anything special either.

She noticed him on the street one day as he walked back to his dismal room in an overcrowded boarding house. To hear her tell it, she saw something shining in him, something deep inside, so hidden from the world that it was like finding a rare jewel that only she would have. The rich are like that. They don’t want anything unless no one else can have it.

The night they met, his clothes and skin were sticky from the fine powdered sugar that drifted in the air of the warehouse. She said he tasted like a fine dessert when she sank her teeth into his chest.

It felt like a knife made of ice was plunged straight into his heart. Though she stood no taller than five and a half feet, she shoved him to the ground as if he were a doll, straddled his hips, tore open his shirt.

She dragged him to her lavish home, put him to bed, and spoon fed him her blood as he burned with fever and screamed in torment for four days. His body rotted. His skin turned green, then grey, and held the sweet, damp scent of decay. His muscles tore and regrew, spasmed and twisted as they remade themselves into something terrible and powerful.

When it was over, she showed him the way.

He loved her deeply, despite what she had done to him. Perhaps because of it. His old life had been lonely and brutal, and this one seemed to have endless possibilities, all laid out before him, grains of sand on an eternal shore.

She was carefree and beautiful. The first being to ever treat him kindly, to ever really care for him. When he looked into Cat’s face he saw a reason for eternity

She took everything in her own time, however, as she wanted it. He thirsted as much for knowledge as he did for blood, but she meted it out with inconsistency and riddles.

He learned some absolutes. The things he now carries in his mind like a dark bible. What he can and cannot eat. What will heal, what will hurt. The few things that can kill him.

She never told him what would happen if he was harmed while hungry for blood, or how long he could go, or why they were destined to live forever. Or if they even would. She withheld. Over time her love for him turned possessive, jealous, and reliant on his fealty.

Their passive, alien eyes saw so much together in fifty years. The world changed around them. They watched the city turn into an arsenal, its citizens to soldiers. The essence of blood hung heavy in the air as humans died in droves in the hospitals and streets.

But Caterina had more expensive tastes than soldiers, a palette that favored the young and beautiful members of the upper class. It was a dangerous endeavor, and sure enough, it put an end to her. A group of hunters in the city caught her feeding in an alley behind a fine theater, and they were ready. They corralled her with torches, stakes and sharpened swords, then dragged her into the harsh light of day and watched her burn.

John knows about this in great detail. He knows because he was there. The moment he heard them coming, he left her, running for the shadows. Hiding. Watching. Terrified.

The sound of her screaming, the growls and snarls, the infernal wails that escaped her throat as it twisted and turned to dust… they still echo in his ears sometimes. He stayed in the alleyway for hours, weeping silently, watching the ashes of her body drift away with the slightest breeze, knowing that there was a chance they could have fought them off. If he’d stuck by her. If they’d been together.

He was suddenly an orphan again, helpless and aimless and alone. The city seemed dangerous again, too many humans, too many people who might know what he was. After the war, like so many, he went west. He reckoned they’d know less about his kind out there, where shade is scarce and the sun is always brutal, and he was right.

He left all the stolen riches and fineries from his time with Cat behind, keeping only one pair of tinted glass spectacles and the clothes on his back.. He traveled light, except for the weight of what he’d done.

He roamed the west alone, bouncing around for years until the land seeped into him like dirt you can never wash out. The language, the ways of it, became his. He pined for Cat during the long days, sleeping in brothels, caves, canvas lean-tos, or burying himself if the sand was soft enough.

It wasn’t until he met Michael that he learned again how not to be alone. Then John betrayed Michael with his own needs. John had been the one who needed saving, hiding again in a dark, shadowed place, crying only for himself and his own needs. And Michael was there for him, had put himself on the line in a way that John hadn’t done for Cat.

So he rides, as resolutely as he can, even though his body is screaming at him to stop, because he cannot hide this time. He will not be that scared little thing that hid in the darkness, sniveling like a pathetic child, not for a third time. He will be the monster that shields the other.

About an hour before sunrise, he finds Michael’s horse and supplies. They’ve been scattered by the hunters on their quest to find the “pack.”  _ Fools. _

He grunts quietly as he dismounts, his legs and hips stiff and stubborn.

There’s still a ways to go, he knows, and there’s no time to stop and bury himself in the sand. Or try to construct some sort of shelter. He has to keep riding into the day. Michael’s life may depend on it. He’s strong enough now to withstand the heat if he just covers himself well enough.

Somehow John’s spectacles, which had been in the pocket that  _ didn’t  _ hit the ground first, had mostly survived the fall, with only one missing lens and a crack across the other. He wraps the empty part of the frame in a strip of torn fabric. Vision through one eye will have to do for now.

He wraps every inch of exposed skin in the bloodied shirts he pulled from the hunters’ bodies, drapes a long gauzy scarf over his head like a cowl, and places his wide-brimmed preacher’s hat on top. He hopes it will be enough.

He climbs carefully back into the saddle and presses on, savoring the last vestiges of the cool, clean night. When the sun clears the horizon like an old god seeking to lay its deadly eyes upon the damned, John braces himself for death. But it doesn’t come. His skin prickles with a static-like heat, just the slightest itch.

_ I’m comin’, Michael.  _ He just doesn’t know if it’ll be for salvation or revenge.


	15. Desert Shade, Part 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober, Day 15
> 
> Prompts:  
> No.14 “Is Something Burning?” (fire)  
> No.19 “Broken Hearts” (grief)  
> Alt.11 (presumed dead)  
> No.26 “If You Thought the Head Trauma Was Bad” (blindness)  
> No.30 “Now Where Did that Come From?” (ignoring an injury)
> 
> John tries to be the knight in shining armor, while Michael tries to meet him halfway.
> 
> Trigger/Content warnings: blood, broken bones, gore, eye injury (major), guns, implied domestic violence, depression, thoughts of suicide, burns, sexism and misogyny, graphic description of injury

It’s close to sunset when John senses living bodies, both human and animal. Blood, sweat, and mortal flesh

Common sense tells him that approaching when there’s even a hint of daylight left is harebrained for all sorts of reasons, not the least of which is that the sun will kill him dead the second it gets a taste of his bare skin. Today, however, is not a day for common sense. It’s a day for righteous fury and unholy intervention in the affairs of man.

These wretched creatures have messed with the wrong monsters, put their filthy, fearful hands on the wrong wolf.

He took a gun off the hunters he killed back at the cave, a shiny silver six-shooter loaded with elegant silver bullets. Normally such mundane weapons would be beneath him (not to mention outside of his area of expertise), but with him being less than full strength, he can’t afford to forego any advantage he can get.

He stops before the homestead is visible. If he can’t see them, chances are, they can’t see him. He closes his eyes, stills the work of his organs, slows his heart, holds his breath. If he focuses just right, free from the distractions of his body, he can sense how many people he has to deal with. And hopefully, he’ll sense Michael, still breathing, still living.

In fact, Michael is the first one he senses, mostly due to the amount of blood he’s lost. John’s heart immediately speeds back up, fear and joy intermingled in his chest. Michael lives, but he’s wounded and weakened. John works to control and still his anger and concern, and goes back to assessing the situation.

Four living human bodies. All strong, all healthy and well-fed. John won’t have the benefit of surprise like he did with the hunters in the desert. Still, even pained like he is, he’s stronger and faster than all of them. And if the hunters’ confusion about his kind is any indication, these humans won’t be prepared for him either.

***

Michael hangs from his shackles, just wishing he could lie down, close his eyes, and never wake up.

John is dead. He knows that now. State he was in when Michael left him just a day ago was dire to say the very least, and those hunters will have found him by now. He tries not to let his mind wander to how they must have killed him but he can’t help himself. Was it a sliver of wood, through his heart or brain? Did they cut off his head for a trophy? Or did they simply pull his broken, prone body out into the light of the hot desert day?

He hopes it was quick, that he didn’t suffer too much more. Because he was suffering bad before. What a horrible way for him to go. What a horrible sadness is left in his wake.

The grief distracts Michael from the pain of the deep gashes in his back. Every move he makes pulls and tears the skin just a little bit more, threatening to break him. He’s spent. Physically, mentally, emotionally. But these men won’t let him die.

Michael and John kill. He can’t deny or run from that. John kills out of necessity, though he does try to be choosy, setting rules for himself that help him thread a needle between hating himself and actually being able to survive. Michael kills when he has no choice, when the beast in him takes over under the full of the moon, when John can’t hold him back. It’s not a regular occurrence, but it does happen.

The point is, they don’t kill for fun. They don’t delight in torture. Men have a sadistic love of killing and cruelty that is rarely found in monsters.

But for what they’ve done to John, and for the torure they’ve laid upon Michael, he’ll make an exception.

Mathew and Thomas have taken a break from beating and whipping him, while Henry keeps watch outside. It became obvious, after a while, that they were damn near to killing Michael, and they needed him alive, mostly out of pride, to show the other humans that their faith is, in actuality, knowledge.

Thomas and Mathew play cards on a battered workbench, ignoring him, completely unafraid. Liza, the woman, comes into the barn holding an armful of clothing.

“Damn it, woman, I told ya to stay in the house,” Thomas snaps, throwing down his cards.

She ignores his outburst and thrusts the clothes at him. “I want you to cover him up. His nakedness is an affront and I won’t have it.”

Michael senses deception in her, and he’d be curious about it if he had any will left in him.

“He’s an animal, Elizabeth,” Thomas says sternly.

“Would you put pants on a dog?” Mathew adds. He chews casually on a wad of tobacco, not looking up from his hand.

She hesitates, thinking. “Well he  _ looks _ like a man,” she insists, still holding out the clothes. “And I find it offensive.”

Mathew groans and stands up, walks over, and takes the clothes from her. “Let’s just do as the lady says,” he says to Thomas, obviously annoyed at the intrusion of a female into his male space. 

The animosity between human sexes in this culture is tiresome as far as Michael is concerned.

Thomas groans. “Well, I ain’t freein’ his hands even for a second. Will it make you  _ happy  _ if I get him in these pants?”

She nods curtly. “That’ll do.” She looks at Michael, and again he senses something… is it  _ pity _ ? Surely not. Until she says. “I should get him some water, maybe somethin’ to eat?”

Thomas steps up to her like a dog about to start a fight. “What did you just say?”

She steps back, afraid. “I just thought… since you want him breathin’ when they come.”

Thomas considers it for a moment, then stands down a bit. “Get it from the trough. And don’t feed him nothin’ fancy,” he concedes. “Damn woman, you’re testin’ me today.”

She disappears hurriedly, still fearful. 

“You got to get her in line,” Mathew scolds him.

“You ain’t wrong, but damn if she ain’t right. This mongrel is hangin’ by a ragged thread. Thought he’d be tougher.”

Mathew holds a silver knife to Michael’s throat while Thomas unchains his ankles and forces Michael’s legs into the pants and pulls them up around his waist. He seems disgusted the entire time. They chain him back up and leave it at that, then go back to their game of cards.

When Liza comes back into the barn with the water and food, he can tell by scent that the water is clean and fresh. She holds the tin cup to his lips and tips it back gently.

Michael’s throat is parched. The last time he had water was yesterday, and it wasn’t so much a drink as it was a near-drowning. His lips are cracked and bleeding, his head aching with dehydration. He can’t help but be grateful, and a bit thrown off by the tenderness she shows him.

She feeds him a slice of bread. It tastes fresh, and has a bit of butter on it, which he knows is a precious thing.

She glances over at the men to make sure they’re not watching, then looks into his eyes and whispers, “I’m sorry.” She’s terrified. But not of him.

“Someone’s coming!” Henry hollers from outside.

“Is it Zeke and them? Or Paul and the sheriff?” Mathew calls back disinterestedly.

“Could be… Jus’ one tho. Looks like he might be hurt? Settin’ low in the saddle,” Henry replies.

Thomas frowns, grabs his gun. “Mathew, stay here, keep an eye on this one. Liza, you go get back in that house and I swear on the bible if you come out I will knock you senseless.”

She obeys as Thomas steps out to investigate.

The wind shifts direction, and Michael’s nose suddenly picks up on the odor of the three men who rode out yesterday. The three men who surely killed John.

But underneath that, impossibly, he smells his friend… the floral, sweet, funereal scent unique in all the world to John.

_ It can’t be. _

His supernatural sense of smell hasn’t lied to him yet. He may be weakened by the poison of the silver that has leaked into his blood, but he’s not hallucinating.

If they catch John, and Michael loses him again, he’ll go mad, but he’s encouraged by the fact that John is covered in the blood of their shared enemies. It must mean he’s had some medicine and gotten his strength back. Michael allows himself to feel a glimmer of hope.

Mathew seems discontent to be the one left babysitting, so he wanders over to the barn door, picking at his nails with one of the silver knives. He squints into the distance.

“Looks like he’s… covered in blood,” Mathew says. “And ain’t that. Ain’t that Zeke’s horse?”

***

John sees three men standing in front of the barn, two of them armed, all of them curious at his approach.

He doesn’t slow for a second, even as one of them starts shouting.

“Shoot him, Tom, shoot him now!”

The one called Tom hesitates, bringing the gun up only halfway. The third man draws his gun as well.

“Shoot him goddammit!”

The third man complies, needing less urging than Tom does.

John is quick on the draw with his stolen revolver and catches him with a bullet in the head. At this distance, he’s surprised he makes it.

Tom finally raises his gun and squeezes the trigger.

The bullet grazes John’s temple. Not enough to wound him, but it clips the frame of his spectacles, shattering the one remaining lens, letting the sun touch his open eye.

He screams. A blue flame flares from his socket like a torch, and his eye melts like candle wax, the skin around it igniting. The horse stays on track, unperturbed by the gunfire, perhaps used to it, and John holds on. He drops the gun and leans forward to keep from falling, his other hand trying to extinguish the fire eating at his face.

Though he snuffs it out, the eye is gone. His other remains untouched, but covered by the solid bandaging over the other missing lens of the glasses. He’s effectively blind, unable to remove the covering.

The sun is going down, but not fast enough. He breathes through the pain, mentally retreating, going back to his sixth sense, trying to perceive the situation without sight. The horse's hooves beat a sure path. The animal knows the way and will not be deterred.

Tom immediately spends his advantage, firing wildly, likely spooked by the sight of someone’s face spontaneously combusting. His friend, the one who seems to be in the know, is yelling at Tom to stop.

John can do this. He pulls his bandages down over the hole where his eye had been, and soldiers on, screaming out a grotesque warcry.

They’ve armed themselves again, firing with more accuracy. John’s moving quickly, ignoring the pain, casting aside any doubts he may have had about his abilities, but his extra senses are not perfect. He catches a bullet in the chest, and another in the throat. He’s fed recently enough that he’s able to keep moving, and he’s close enough to them now that they’ve run out of time.

Following the smell of fear, he leaps from the horse and jumps into the man’s arms like a lover. He wraps his legs around the man’s waist, pulling his face toward his mouth as if to kiss him. Instead, John places his fangs around the outside of the lips and eats the scream that tries to escape.

He rides the man’s falling body to the ground, biting him all over the face, throat and chest like a snake striking wildly, then crushes his head between his hands.

He rolls into the shade of the barn, slamming against the discarded axle of a wagon, still unable to see. He hears Michael’s voice scream “Behind you!” just before a jagged, splintered piece of wood is forced into his back.


	16. Desert Shade, Part 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober, Day 16
> 
> Prompts:  
> No.5 “Where Do You Think You’re Going?” (rescue)  
> No.7 “I’ve Got You” (carrying)  
> No.10 “They Look So Pretty When They Bleed” (trail of blood)  
> No.21 “I Don’t Feel So Well” (infection)  
> No.25 “I Think I’ll Just Collapse Right Here Thanks” (theme)
> 
> John and Michael find shelter and comfort, before the coming storm.
> 
> Trigger/Content warnings: blood, gore, broken bones, puncture wound, impaling, illness, lacerations and cuts, negative depiction of religion, eye injury, permanent scarring

The splintered, sharp slat of wood is a good four inches across its middle, and it punches raggedly out of John’s chest. John can’t see Michael, but he can hear him stand and lunge against the shackles, snarling, his teeth snapping together. He’s gone feral with anger and grief.

John falls on his face, grabbing at the stake as it burns him, and his attacker stands over him, grinning smugly.

“I know what you are,” he says, and raises his foot to stomp the wooden lance further in.

“Maybe,” John coughs, black blood mixing in his mouth with the red blood of the man he just devoured. “But you can’t aim for shit.”

He flips over so quickly that the man doesn’t understand what he sees. To the human, it’s as if John had simply always been on his back, staring him straight in the eyes. John grabs the man’s foot as it comes down and throws him backward into the pile of debris behind him.

The man hits his head and is stunned, which gives John the chance he needs to pull the stake the rest of the way through his body, wincing as it widens the wound on its way out. He can feel his chest cavity filling with blood and his lung collapsing, for the second time almost as many days. He tosses the stake aside, then falls on his hands and knees, crawling over to the man’s prone body.

“You think you... know so much,” John wheezes in the man’s ear, holding him by the throat, “and that you’re... _better than us_. You’re just.. a worm. And you know... nothing at all.”

He breaks the man’s neck but keeps him alive long enough to completely drain him. He’ll need every ounce to close the gaping hole in his chest. As the skin, bone, muscle and viscera push themselves together, the internally pooled blood forcing itself out of the closing opening, he grunts, bearing down to ride out the pain. The injury closes enough that he’s no longer in danger of collapsing, splinters pushing themselves out of the scabby lesion that’s left behind. He’s not sure how many more scars his body can pile on. It ain’t even Wednesday yet. 

John races over to Michael and grabs the chains, breaking them with his bare hands, first the ones on Michael’s legs, and then the ones at his hands. The cuffs themselves remain, burning bracelets adorning his wrists and ankles.

As soon as his arms are free, Michael wraps them around John and pulls him to his chest. He’s sobbing. His skin is boiling. John can feel it even through his own bandages.

John wants to hug him back, but he’s caught a glimpse of Michael’s wounds and doesn’t want to hurt him, so he just leans in.

“It’s okay,” he soothes. “It’s okay. I got ya.”

Michael pulls away, puts a hand to the side of John’s face. The bandages have fallen away from his eyes. John doesn’t know what he looks like, but judging by Michael’s expression, it ain’t good. “John, you…ain’t well...”

John chuckles in disbelief. “Jus’ like you, worryin’ ‘bout me ‘fore yourself,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m fine now, Sugar, jus’ a lil scar.”

“We gotta get out,” Michael says suddenly, as if remembering something. “There’s more’a’em comin’.”

The werewolf’s words are slurring. “Michael…”

“More comin.’ Gotta move.”

Michael takes three shaky steps past John toward the mouth of the barn, then collapses, his legs giving out. He doesn’t even catch himself, just hits the ground on his side in a small puff of dust. John kneels beside him, alarmed. “Michael?”

The wolf is conscious, but fading. He looks past John and toward the door as if seeing something. 

“He’s right,” says a voice behind him, and John turns around to see a woman standing in the doorway, a rifle in her hands. “There’s more comin’, and neither of you is fit to ride. I can help you.”

John immediately tenses, readying himself to attack, but Michael weakly grabs him by the ankle. “Don’t,” he breathes. “She ain’t like them. Won’t… hurt us.”

John eyes her suspiciously. “Drop the gun,” he says. “You know what we are, you know that ain’t gonna save ya. And I’d rather not weather more pain today.”

She looks at him hesitantly, then down at Michael, who closes his eyes and nods gently at her. She places the gun gently on the dirt floor and raises her hands.

“I just wanna help ya,” she says.

“ _Why_ ,” John asks flatly. “I jus’ kill’t all yer men here.”

She smiles. “ _Exactly._ ”

John smiles back. “Think we’ll get along jus’ fine.”

“Well let’s stop stittin’ around jawin’,” she says, business-like. “Help me get him inside.”

John kneels beside Michael and hoists him across his shoulders, pulling Michael’s knee and arm together around John’s neck like a stole. Michael is heavy, and bigger than him, and there’s that slight creak in John’s bones again, but he stands up strong and carries him relatively unhindered. It feels good to have his strength back, to feel further removed, once again, from humanity.

The woman leads him inside the two room home. “Put ‘im on the table. We need to wash and dress those wounds and get his fever down.” She helps maneuver Michael onto the worn wooden table on his stomach, and John finally gets a good look at his friend’s wounds.

The gashes overlap so much that in some places there just isn’t any skin left. He sees the white shore of Michael’s shoulder blade where the lashes wore through the muscle there. Splinters of silver are embedded in the canyons torn into the flesh, keeping them from closing up. The remaining skin is streaked red with spreading infection.

John looks back at the path they took through the house and sees a jagged line of blood leading back to the barn. He sits on the bed beside Mchael, pulling all the bandages and coverings from his own face and just stares at his friend, speechless.

Less than 48 hours ago, Michael ran his fingers through John’s hair to calm him as he lay wracked with pain, and now John does the same, pulling Michael’s long black tresses away from his face, softly caressing his head.

“You’re gonna be all right, sweetheart. You’re safe now. I’m here.” He feels ridiculous saying it, because he’s not sure exactly how to help. Michael has always been hardier than him, less can hurt him, and John is ashamed to say that he’s not sure what the best way to go about healing him is. To see him this weak is heartbreaking.

Michael seems to be deteriorating by the second, as if he was holding on just long enough to see John, and now his reserves are spent. He’s shaking, his eyelids heavy, a sad, pained moan sounds in his throat with every exhale.

Sweat beads on his brow, and John can see the line in his cheek where he’s clenching his jaw, his eyes shut tight, his eyebrows knitted together.

The woman is watching him, listening. He can feel her eyes on him, cataloging the intimate movements and the longing way he looks at Michael. _Let her stare._

“You oughta keep talkin’ to him,” the woman says gently, surprising him a bit. “I’m gonna go get my things, we’ll get ‘im fixed up.”

She’s confident. John can tell. He holds Michael’s hand, and feels his friend gently squeeze his rough palm around John’s fingers.

“You’ll be right as rain,” John says. “We’ll both be our old selves again. And I promise I won’t never go near heights again.”

“I. Was…’s’posed to help you,” Michael mutters.

John laughs, “An’ ya did! You sent them hunters right to me, as first course, then led me to the main banquet. Don’t think you coulda’ done better if ya tried. Now you rest, Sugar. You let me care for you now.”

The woman comes back with an armful of supplies and sets them down on a chair. She takes a pitcher of water from the counter and pours it into a chipped enameled basin, adds the contents of a small waxed paper envelope. From her pocket she pulls a key still covered in the blood of her dead husband and removes the cuffs from John’s wrists and ankles.

She hands a small, brown glass bottle to John. “Morphine. I reckon he’ll need the whole bottle, seein’ how his body works. I can’t be sure, but it’s better to try than for him to go on without it. What I’m ‘bout to do is gonna hurt.”

John tilts Michael’s head up as much as he can and feeds him the elixir one dropperful at a time until the bottle’s empty. Michael is so worn down that it doesn’t take long for medicine to take effect, sending him to a peaceful twilight sleep, barely aware of reality, mostly in slumber.

John squeezes his hand one more time before turning to the woman for instruction.

“What do I call you?” John asks.

“‘Lizabeth,” Michael barely whispers, and the woman smiles in response.

“That’s what they called me here. An English fashion for my real name. Isobel.”

“Isobel. How can I help. Let me help.”

She hands John a pair of tiny brass forceps. “We need to get the silver out of him, then wash him. It’s gonna take patience, but we also got to be quick. The posse’ll be here first thing tomorrow, if Paul reached them.”

It takes two hours for them to carefully remove the silver shavings that the whip’s tassel left in its wake. Almost as soon as it’s all out, Michael’s fever breaks.

Isobel gently bathes the wounds in a floral, herbal-smelling infusion then pats them dry. She has John light a fire and burn some black sagebrush and creosote with the kindling to make a fine ash, which she mixes with honey. She pushes the paste into the gashes, and then John helps lift Michael as Isobel winds long strips of clean linen around Michael as a bandage.

She brews a strong-smelling tea and they pour it slowly down Michael’s throat.

They carry Michael to bed, John bearing most of the weight, but she’s stronger than she looks.

“Now let me see that eye,” she says, sitting John down with a hand on his shoulder.

“Ain’t much to see,” he replies, reaching up to touch the sunken, empty socket. The skin around it is raised and bumpy, raw and permanently scarred, but it barely hurts anymore, just a memory of the pain. He smiles, fees he won some sort of prize fight with his nemesis the sun.

She daubs it with a poultice anyhow, packing the empty space with cotton and then securing it in place with a strip of fabric torn from a tablecloth. She notices his bare chest, the scar where the stake had gone through, and runs her hand over it in awe.

He grabs her wrist quickly and pulls her hand away from the tender flesh.

“Michael’s healin’,” John says. “Howd’ya know how to help him?”

“Tom. Studied his kind. Mathew and Walt knew even more. They know how to kill… people… like him, and just the same, know how to heal.”

“Why would they bother to learn that?”

“Want to know the truth, I think Tom wanted to be one. Hoped he’d get bit, maybe survive. He went on and on about how they was monsters, evil even. Quoted the bible like it made him an authority on right and wrong. But all he ever wanted was to feel powerful.

Now you on the other hand. Don’t think he ever heard’a one’a you. I aint never either. Guess Mathew knew.

They all kept warning me what danger was out there. Monsters in the dark. But lookin’ at you now.” She nods her head toward the bedroom where Michael sleeps. “How you care for him. How he cares for you. If you can love, if you can bleed, how can you be as bad as all that?”

She continues to amaze him. He begins to understand what Caterina said all those years ago, about some people just shining inside. “We ain’t _good_ ,” he corrects her. “That’s fer sure. You _should_ be afraid of us.”

“Well, you set me free,” she says. “Got rid of them what stood in the way of my freedom. I used to be scared all the time, jus’ right here, settin’ in my own home. And now I feel like I won’t never be ‘fraid of nothin’ again.”

“Thought you’d see us as impure. An affront to your god.”

She snorts, wiping her bloody hands on her dress. “There ain’t no god. Just us. And ain’t none of us pure.”


	17. Desert Shade, Part 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober, Day 18
> 
> Prompts:  
> No.5 “Where Do You Think You’re Going?” (failed escape)  
> Alt.3 (comfort) [REPEAT]
> 
> As John and Michael lick their wounds, they find their path to freedom blocked.
> 
> Trigger/Content warnings: blood, illness, negative depiction of religion, references to religion, eye injury, permanent scarring

A thin, ice cold hand holds Michael’s. The sound of conversation reminds him of a forest stream, an impression half remembered from his life in the North, so many years ago. He never quite falls unconscious, but he’s in and out of open-eyed dreams, John and Isobel’s words right beside him but completely unintelligible.

The burn of his wounds feels like it goes through him, but the soft blanket of the morphine wraps him up, distances his brain from the sensation to a point where he no longer cares. It’s the first real rest he’s had in days, and he isn’t even asleep.

He sees the pines, the shiny glass of flowing water, the vibrant color of grass and the feeling of soft black earth under his bare feet. It’s all there, superimposed over the sepia palette of yellow, red, and brown, the dust covered wood and sandy floors, the perpetual monochrome palette of the desert.

Somehow he can’t bring himself to miss the distant Northern woods. It’s only snips and visions like these that he has anymore. They’re beautiful, but there’s something terrible and dark about them. Dark in a way that he fears when he closes his eyes. Dark like the nightmares he wakes from but can’t remember, reaching for John’s slender body to pull him close, to feel safe again.

He’s been what he is for a long time, long before he traveled southerly to the hot desert, forsaking the cool embrace of forest shade. Long enough that he doesn’t quite know where or when it started. Maybe he was there, under the snow and the trees before humanity. Or maybe he was born yesterday.

Either way, it started somewhere, and the horror of it scarred him deep inside, an indelible mark on his already damned soul. John doesn’t believe in hell or damnation, but Michael has a creeping, cold fear of it. It can’t be like the humans say it is, with their fallible books and corrupt prophets, but the idea of something evil gnaws at him, like moths slowly devouring the fabric of his mind. He wishes he didn’t believe. He doesn’t know why he does. But he keeps it to himself.

John is his constant. They have a mutual understanding of the sanctity of secrets, and a shared complicated mix of shame and confidence in their predicaments and animal needs. Not a one asks the other for more than he wants to tell, though both can’t help but wonder.

The smell of raw meat nearby calls to him like a siren song, and he opens his eyes fully. In that way that illness does, his ache and discomfort leaves him like a ghost, without him knowing the precise moment he started to feel better. He makes a soft “mm” and takes a deep breath, signalling his full awareness to his companions.

“Take it slow,” Isobel warns, seeing him stir. “Let me check your wounds.”

John keeps holding his hand while Isobel pulls back the blood-clotted bandages. Michael winces as she prods, but he can tell that the gashes have closed considerably, to raised, ridged scars, only as sore as bruises now.

“Ain’t it just a wonder,” she breathes to herself, pulling the bandages back even more. “Just a wonder.”

John leans in toward Michael’s face and smiles. “Welcome back, Sugar.”

He helps Michael push himself up on the bed, and sit up completely with his feet on the floor. Michael still feels a little dizzy, his body heavy and weary from fighting off the infection and the fever that came with it. Isobel hands him a glass of water, which he drinks greedily. He coughs, choking a bit in his eagerness.

She hands him a cut of uncooked beef shoulder, fresh. She and John must have just slaughtered it not more than an hour ago.

John sips at a tin cup of its blood, holding it in a hand that is burn-scarred and pink, cratered and webbed by the memory of fire. The marks match those that cover most of the right side of his face. The place where his eye used to be is covered in a white bandage.

For his part, Michael’s dark skin will carry the white lines of the whip’s path, and wrists and ankles are circled in the tight scars from the shackles.

“Ain’t we a pair,” he says, hovering his hand near John’s tattered cheek. The vampire leans into the touch and closes his eye, a contented smile crossing his bone-white skin.

Michael turns to Isobel, who has fresh bandages in hand, and nods to her. “Don’t know how to thank you,” he says, guilt in his voice.

She “tsks” at him and guides his arms up over his head so she can re-wrap him. “I ain’t got nothin’ better to do, believe me

She’s pulling clothes out of the bureau in the corner. She throws a few things to John that were clearly Thomas’s before his very recent untimely death, including a scuffed leather hat and gloves and a pair of boots that are just barely too small. The leather will stretch.

She sizes up John and puts her hands on her hips. “Just need to find you a shirt. I think those boots we pulled offa’ Henry outta fit ya, and your hat will do fine. Hope you don’t mind wearin’ a pair’a my gloves. Yer hands are a might skinny for the men’s. You’re lucky I got long fingers like yours.”

John nods to her gratefully and takes what she offers.

She bites her lip, still looking at John. “It’s the sun what burns ya?” She asks.

John nods. They both usually hide their weaknesses from humans, but the cat’s out the bag now.

“I got somethin’ for ya, think it might help. But I don’t know if yer too proud to wear it.”

“Try me,” John says.

She pulls out a long black veil, nearly floor length, and a matching black parasol. “Wore ‘em to my first husband’s funeral,” she explains. “Don’t plan to have a ceremony for that bastard that’s layin’ out in the barn, so I figure I ain’t got no use for ‘em anymore.”

John reaches out and takes them from her. He and Michael run their hands over the dark, sheer fabric, finely woven and nearly opaque, but they can still just see through it. It may very well work.

“Isobel, hun, you got stories to tell,” Michael says.

“Make yer hair curl,” she says, smirking.

“You fit to ride?” John asks Michael, glancing out the window. The desert is still black as coal, but the sun will rise sooner than they like.

Before he can answer, Michael’s hair stands on end. He can smell it on the air, the sweat and fear of at least fifteen men and a handful of hounds, bearing down on the ranch at speeds they won’t outrun. “We’re outta time,” he says, his voice hollow. “Gonna have to fight our way through.”

“You won’t make it,” Isobel says. “The sun’s comin’, and Paul knows what y’are, Michael. Knows how to hurt ya.”

“We got to try,” John says.

“Then y’all got to move. There’ll be a full posse, make no mistake. I got a couple horses for ya out back, loaded up with some supplies.”

They slip out the back door into the still-warm desert night and climb up onto the horses, ready to ride. The animals are restless, feeding on the fear of the trio around them.

The tide of the early morning air tells Michael that the men have fanned out, they’re closer than he thought. And more than one is armed with silver. He and John have wandered into the wrong stretch of the desert, this place that sees them, even if only halfway. This place that knows exactly how to hurt them.

“They’re here,” he says to John. “They’re comin’ in from all sides.”

“We can take ‘em.”

Michael hesitates. “There’s a lot of ‘em, John. They got the high ground, and mornin’s on its way.”

Isobel sidles up beside them, her hands clenched into fists. Michael can feel the heat of anger in her, a thirst for blood. It’s an old beast, something she set aside for years. It’s turned outward now, but Michael can feel the uncertainty of its tide… a shame to it, a regret, and it threatens to flip and turn to self hatred. And under that, no matter what she says, or how boldly she speaks, the fear still holds on.

“Get inside,” she says in a tone that brooks no argument. “And let them come.”


	18. Desert Shade, Part 9 of 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober, Day 19
> 
> Prompts:  
> No.6 “Please…” (get it out)  
> No.10 “They Look So Pretty When They Bleed” (blood loss)  
> No.16 “A Terrible, Horrible…” (forced to beg)  
> No.18 “Panic! At the Disco” (paranoia)  
> No.22 “Do These Tacos Taste Funny to You?” (poisoned)  
> Alt.7 (found family) 
> 
> A final confrontation confirms a new alliance.
> 
> Trigger/Content warnings: Extreme gore, extreme violence, graphic violence, body horror, blood, broken bones, graphic description of injuries, face injuries, violence against a woman, lady whump, implied domestic violence, guns, gunshot wounds, hand injuries, tendons, negative description of religion, permanent scars, animal death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS EXTREME GORE

John hears the screaming and the dogs before anyone even approaches the house. A man boots, his stomach unable to weather the carnage he sees. They’ve discovered the bodies.

The first one to come to the door is naturally the sheriff, accompanied by Paul. They step up close to Isobel as soon as she appears on the threshold, a clear move of dominance on their part. Her dress is stained with blood from treating Michael’s wounds, and she has managed to work up some tears to look the part of a grieving, traumatized widow.

John watches intently from a gap between the wooden slats of the outside bedroom wall. He feels like a coward, letting her cover for them, but his sense of self preservation is strong. He hasn’t lived this long without being at least a little selfish.  _ Okay, maybe real selfish. _

At the moment, all that separates them from the mob is four thin wooden walls and an anxious woman with a pistol behind her back, tied in the sash of her dress.

The remaining posse is spread out, some behind the structure, some in front. The full count is fifteen men and four hounds.

The dogs are losing their minds, howling and barking, jumping at their chains, their collars choking them. They aren’t turned toward the barn, where the bodies are. Their attention is focused like a magnifying glass on the house.

Isobel manages an excellent act, bursting into wracking sobs and throwing herself into the sheriff's arms, burying her face in his leather duster.

He puts his arms around her. “Oh Liza, my God!”

“They… killed everyone, ripped ‘em apart, then… then just ran off… just…” she dissolves back into crying, collapsing to her knees.

“They?” Paul asks. “Did the pack come?”

She just wails louder, covering her face with her hands.

John feels a change in the atmosphere. Something’s off. Michael starts to twitch, his nerves awakening his innate fight or flight response, something primeval and raw. His heartbeat hastens, his breathing turns to a panicked, quickened rhythm. John creeps over to him, putting a hand on his back to comfort him, to soothe the beast inside.

The dogs keep baying, and one of them breaks loose from its handler, rushing toward the door. Paul catches it, holds it by the collar as it pulls toward the bedroom door.

Paul is getting suspicious. John can’t see him anymore, but he can feel him, and obviously so can Michael, who has a constant low rumble in his throat now. 

John holds a hand against Michael’s lips pleading with him silently to be quiet.

“What happened there on your table Liza?”

He must recognize the materials. The herbs. He must see the blood.

She hesitates, fear returning to her body, anxiety pulling her away from logic. “I… I tried to save him… Tried to save Thomas.”

“Thomas is in the barn. Neck’s broke, bite marks all over him.”

There’s no reply.

The sheriff is wise now too. Humans have that sixth sense too, it’s just duller than a monster’s, and more often ignored. “You best let us in now, Liza.”

She gives the act one more try. “I can’t… I’m grievin’... I just. I just want to be left alone.”

Paul shoves her, hard. John can hear it, the sound of the man's hands on her, the sound of her boots scraping backward before she falls on her ass. Paul draws his gun and the sherriff does the same, barging past her with purpose, frustrated that she would try to stop them.

Michael loses control.

The twisted, grotesque sounds of the transformation draw the men to the bedroom door. They’re confused and scared, and as a result, they’re also angry.

“Come on out now,” the sheriff calls.

But there’s no stopping the change now.

John stands to the right of the door, dressed to face the sun, in case they have to run.

Paul kicks in the door and it swings over John, hiding him from the men. They take a step back, horrified at the sight: a man, seemingly melting before their eyes, arms and legs growing and deforming, flesh falling in chunks, blood and viscera splattering on the floor beneath him. They wouldn’t see John if he was standing right in front of them.

Paul suddenly remembers the silver-loaded shotgun in his hands, raises it to his shoulder, and squeezes the trigger. John is there before the shells leave the barrel, jumps between the gun and Michael, and takes the shot full in the chest. He grunts, leans over, clutching at the wound, his ribcage exposed, and his face transforms, revealing the monster he is.

He’ll never get tired of the expression on these humans’ faces when they see him. No one seems to know what to make of him out here. They may think they know shifters, but they can’t even pretend to understand vampires.

_ God I love the West. _

Behind him, Michael is fully formed, and he rushes past John, his fur brushing John’s arm. He descends on Paul as the man is trying to pull more shells from his bandolier.

He beheads him, his jaws gripping the top of the man’s skull and tearing.

John falls on his hands and knees, trying to still the pain enough to be able to stand. A shot erupts from the kitchen and a hole appears in the sheriff’s chest in a fine mist of red. John, never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, pulls him to his lips and drinks until his chest is closed.

John yanks the coat from the man's body and throws it over his shoulders to cover the now-exposed skin of his chest.

Isobel follows Michael out the front door, just as a hail of bullets opens up on the front of the house. John hurries after them.

Before he’s even caught up, Michael has pulled the guts from two more men, brass bullets passing through him without consequence.

John catches two in the leg, one of which lodges itself in his femur. He continues onward anyway. The sun is still a few minutes away. They’ll either be dead or victorious by then. He kneels next to one of the bodies, his injured leg stretched out straight. In moments it’s as good as new.

The dogs get to Michael, swarming over him, latching onto his skin and limbs with their teeth. While Michael tries to shake them off, John charges past him, leaping at two of the men who stand close together. Though they manage to catch him in the stomach and cheek with their bullets, he’s strengthened by the sheer number of people he’s devoured in the past two days, and catches their faces in his hands, slamming them backward into the ground.

Gunfire crackles around him, blood flows like springs bubbling up from the ground. He squeezes one man’s throat until he feels the crush of bones and cartilage, and the other he pulls to him, and closes his mouth around the collarbone.

Bullets pierce small holes in the leather duster, finding purchase along John’s arm, which still aches from the injuries he sustained in the fall. But in the adrenaline of the fight, he hardly registers them.

He hears the yelps of the dogs as Michael shakes them off, throwing them away from him like they’re flies he’s simply shooing away. John flies from his most recent kills to the next. He can’t tell where Isobel is. The sense of her anger and fear is lost in the milieu of human emotion around him.

The guns do slow him, which is a considerable danger, especially this close to dawn. They may not have a lasting effect, but as he flies toward a group of five men, he worries for a moment that they may not make it. A shot to his knee temporarily robs him of the use of the limb. Even if he can overcome the pain and get to his feet, the physical damage and detached pieces won’t hold up his weight. He drags himself along anyway, able to crawl as fast as men can walk. 

Out of the corner of his eye, John sees a man charging toward Michael with a pristine, white silver sword, followed by two others with matching knives

Two of them drop, one from a shot to the hip, one with a spray of blood erupting from his neck. John sees Isobel, advancing, running toward the man who holds the sword.

Of the five others, two of them charge toward Michael and Isobel, leaving three that fire at John. A bullet catches his hand, another tips the hat from his head, but he keeps coming, a nightmare slithering toward them.

The thing about guns is that you have to reload. And you have to have enough bullets. And, as further proof that their god is on a permanent hiatus, they all seem to be in a bit of a bind as far as ammunition goes.

He bites one on the ankle and drinks enough to restore his own leg. He roars with the agony of the healing process, but stands anyway. The two men that remain are stricken with fear, and one soils himself. John punches a hand into one of their chests, letting the ribs tear up his wrist as he pulls the heart from its cage. He clamps down on the bobbing Adam’s apple of the other and brings himself back to full strength.

He takes no time to gloat, turning to head back to the melee he hears behind him, Michael roaring and howling.

Michael has disemboweled one of the men, but the man with the sword has plunged it into Michael’s shoulder. Isobel is reloading her gun. The third man seems frozen, battlefield panic setting in as he realizes that he’s nearly alone. 

John knocks the panicked man to the side as he descends upon the sword-wielder and pulls the man’s head back until his neck snaps. He yanks the sword from Michael’s shoulder and then risks sucking the poisoned blood from the wound and spitting it into the dirt without swallowing, like syphoning venom from a rattlesnake wound. The taste of another monster’s blood makes his stomach turn, reminding him of the danger of the poison it holds. But he’s not remotely scared. 

Remarkably, it seems to work— he can feel the wound beginning to close under his lips.

A bullet shatters John’s shoulder blade from behind, exploding out of his chest with a massive exit wound, lodging itself in Michael’s chest, where it’s promptly pushed out by John’s resilient body. Another shot blows John’s ear off. He cries out and flips around to see the man behind him, advancing with the gun.

Isobel’s gun goes off, clipping the man, who flips toward her and fires twice. Both shots hit her, one in the chest, one in the lower abdomen. She crumples.

John is on the man, crushing his head and slamming his lifeless body into the dirt. He doesn’t even try to feed, immediately starting to run toward Isobel’s fallen form.

Michael lunges toward Isobel desperately, still a giant, still in his monstrous form, crazed with blood lust and still in pain from the silver. He’s in a state of bloodlust, looking for live bodies to savage, and there are none left but her. John catches him just before he reaches her, gripping the scruff of Michael’s neck with both hands, digging in with his heels. They both stand over her. She’s still breathing, gasping in shock, and the pain hasn’t yet hit her.

All of them know with a certainty that she is dying.

The pain hits her suddenly, and John wants to go to her, but if he lets Michael go now, the beast will tear her apart. Knowing the agony she is feeling, he wonders if that’s the humane thing to do.

She screams, then chokes as blood spurts out of her mouth. She turns on her side, curling around her wounds. Behind them, the sun is about to rise, but John feels powerless to move. Something inside him won’t let him leave her. He hasn’t met a human like this in a long time.

“Help me!” she cries, the words guttural and wet. “Please! Please, I’m begging you.” She’s losing blood so fast that the area around her mouth is turning blue.

“I… I can’t,” he says, barely audible over the sound of her screams and the growling and snarling of the wolf he holds back.

“You can! You know you can! You bastard!” Fear and pain makes people mean. He remembers himself snapping at Michael, back in the cave, trying to kill him, trying to drink from him at all costs. “Make me like you. Please! Oh god, please!”

“You don’t want to be like me,” he says.

_ Why am I hesitating? _

Self hatred, fear, uncertainty. He has never wanted to be a sire. Never considered it even for a moment. And it dawns on him, the torment he suffered at Caterina’s hands. He wasn’t her lover. He was her toy, powerless and beaten down, now a slave to a thirst he never asked for and still doesn’t want. The ebb and flow of his own cruelty still scares him, and all of it came from the one who made him. “I… I can’t be responsible for you. I can’t teach you what you need to know.”

“A wolf, then! Make me a wolf! I can’t… I’m not done! I’m not done. I just got my life back. Please… please.”

A fresh wave of torment seizes her. She cries out powerfully, the scream piercing and feral. Her body tries to crawl away from itself, to flee the agony, and her spine bends away from the ground like a hunting bow pulled back to its full potential.

“Do it now or kill me! I don’t care which!”

John senses a conflict in Michael as well. The animal inside is begging for carnage, but underneath, where Michael’s human thought still dwells, there's compassion.

As John’s fingers unclench, and he feels Michael’s fur slide out from under his hands, he can still feel the doubt, heavy and foreboding, like a stone in his heart.

Michael damn near takes her arm off in one bite, gnashing down on her collarbone and shoulder, making short work of cartilage and bone. 

_ If she thought she was hurting before… _

John pulls Michael off of her immediately, before the wolf can kill her. He doesn’t know what to expect to happen next, and his eyes are riveted on her.

Michael’s got the taste for her blood and he’s pulling for her. John leans into him, the wolf pushing him forward, his boots sliding over the sand. It’s not often that they find themselves in such a predicament, comparing strength in a life or death contest, and John’s not too fond of it. Makes him feel weak.

But he holds his own, his ectomorphic frame containing an unnatural strength he can only imagine is based in some ancient magic, and Michael’s teeth snap on open air.

John can understand. He has the same desires. The smell of her fearful blood is overwhelming, and his mouth fills with saliva, his throat and stomach pained with the desire to finish her, to take her life into his, another meal. The animal instinct of his kind pleads with him, the darkest corners of his inner voices screaming,  _ drink deep, live forever. _

He knows now, even though he is not directly her sire, what Caterina must have gone through when she changed him. What tiny thread of self control kept her from ending him? How many others had she tried to turn before him and failed, succumbing to the compulsion… to the addiction of the blood.

Isobel thrashes, her arm hanging by two thick white tendons and a couple of strings of shredded muscle. It drags a gory trail in the dust, blood bursting out in great gouts… more of it than her slight body can possibly hold. The sounds coming out of her mouth are the stuff of nightmares, even to John.

The voices of a thousand wolves, a frenzied pack bearing down on a kill. It sounds like a animal being slaughtered. He wants to cover his ears, to shut her out, to stave off his own demons, but he has to hold Michael back.

Until Michael suddenly stops, stands to his full shifted height, the first hints of dawn catching in his glowing yellow eyes, and he howls. The sound vibrates through John’s chest and knocks the wind out of him.

The smell of Isobel’s blood turns, in an instant no longer calling to John as it did before. It smells of rain soaking into clean desert dust, of sage, of sweetgrass. It seems to cleanse the air around it, filling the atmosphere with the static crackle that follows lightning.

Her arm pulls back to her, flesh grabbing for flesh, liquid, claylike, until she’s healed. She’s weeping, but not out of pain, and then her tired, tear-stained face is suddenly peaceful, her breathing even.

She opens her eyes and they catch and reflect the light of the fire around them.

When John had turned, it was a festering, rotting death. What he’s seeing now feels more like a bloody, violent birth. A child cut from the womb, entering the world screaming and fierce.

_ There’s agony in the coming and agony in the going. A circle bound in pain. _

When he looks up from her, Michael is standing beside him, human and bare-skinned. Michael gazes down at her with wonder in his eyes, trying and failing to process what just happened.

She stands calmly, her dress hanging from her in tatters, her chest bare. A collection of old, bitter scars are revealed, crisscrossing her torso and shoulders like a map of her past, a written history of physical pain and prolonged torment. Now among them, the starburst shape of the gunshot wound and the jagged bite mark on her shoulder blend in as if they were always there.

None of them speak. They return to the house and gather clothes and skins of water, then Isobel lights an oil lamp and turns it over. Together they walk out of the flames and into the burning desert day.

***

EPILOGUE

The full moon rises on the blackened skeleton of a farmhouse. Cattle scatter away from the ruins of a ranch, aimless and untethered, unsure where to rest. They travel the lines they used to walk with their master, the one who ruled over their lives and deaths.

The detritus of almost twenty bodies litters the hard-packed dust of the desert floor, pieces strewn about the dry grasses and horse manure, bloated and fetid from the heat and critters that have fed on their rot.

Miles away, oblivious to this scene, sits a sleeping town.

Only Red’s Saloon is still open. He’ll take anyone’s money, any time of the day or night. But with just one customer tonight, he wonders why he bothers.

David, the piano player is drunk, and the notes are not quite right, his fingers slipping even as he moves them over songs he’s played a hundred times before.

It’s been a week since the posse headed out to the Johnson place, along with every man in town who considered himself righteous. How Paul talked all of them into going, he’ll never know. Some cockamamie story about a murderer, a killer of women and children. Got ‘em all riled up.

But the whole story seemed off to Red, and anyhow… he knows he ain’t righteous by any stretch, and neither was any of the ones that went.

No one seems to care that it’s been too long, including him, but he does wonder. Those men should have been back by now. It’s spooky, if nothing else.

He ousts the old drunk from the bar, tells David to go home, and goes to lock up for the night, retreating to the flat above the saloon, where Hannah waits for him in bed.

Up in his room, he lights a cigarette and steps out onto the widow’s walk to stare out across the tops of the ramshackle buildings, the pockmarked, pitted dirt streets.

At the edge of town, a slender figure in a long black veil walks with a purpose, his hands outstretched, touching the flanks of two enormous, demonic creatures, each larger than a bison. Red can see the reflection of their teeth even from this height, saliva dripping from their open maws. Behind them the moon hangs heavy, full of dark promises for the night to come.


End file.
